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A SUMMER I N 
NEW HAMPSHIRE 

OUT-OF-DOOR SONGS FOR ALL 
WHO LOVE THE GRANITE STATE 

COMPILE D-BY 

MARY M. CURRIER' 



O Granite State! land of majestic mountains, 
Of many a lovely vale and flowery lea, 

Of placid lakes, of purest streams and fountains, — 
Where'er thy children stray they turn to thee. 

Bela Chap in 



Concord, New Hampshire 
RUMFORD PRINTING COMPANY 
Nineteen Hundred and Four 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two CoDies Received 
IVMY ]6 1904 
n Cooyrleht Entry 

CLASS to. XXc. No. 

COPY B 






.Copyright, 1903, 

BY 

Mary M. Currier. 



PREFACE. 



This the compiler had in mind in collecting the material 
for this book : to issue an out-of-door book that would 
take its readers into the deep woods, to the mountain 
heights, to the shores of our shining lakes, and to the 
banks of our beautiful streams — in other words, a book 
for nature lovers ; to issue a New Hampshire book cele- 
brating the charms aire! glories of the Granite state, and 
written by those who had known and loved her — a book 
that would appeal to New Hampshire's children who 
revisit her from time to time as well as to those who live 
within her borders ; to issue a book of real poetry includ- 
ing in it some (though not by any means all, for it 
appeared best to publish a small book) of the choicest 
verse that New Hampshire had produced along the lines 
referred to above, and omitting those poets, however 
excellent or well known, whose best work was on sub- 
jects not pertaining to "a summer in New Hampshire. 1 * 
No book of similar scope and character is known to the 
compiler, and though to state the purpose of the work 
thus frankly may be but to invite comparison between 
the aim and the result, it is thought best to do so, as to 



have actual failings noted seems preferable to being mis- 
understood. 

No compiler can fail to be under great obligations to 
many people. The nature of his work is such that he 
cannot do it alone and unaided. And, first, the com- 
piler of this book would extend her sincere thanks to her 
contributors, without whose help the book could not 
have been produced. Many of these have allowed selec- 
tions to be taken from their copyrighted volumes ; others 
have sent cuttings from periodicals and manuscript copies 
of poems, and not a few have furnished information and 
suggestions of great value. Several poems not previ- 
ously published appear in this book, and two were writ- 
ten especially for its pages. There are also those who 
are not contributors who have assisted in various ways, 
and for whose kindness the compiler is grateful. 

"A Hammock Song," " Chocorua," "In a Fog," and 
" Rain in June," originally appeared in the Boston Tran- 
script ; "When Storms Awake," in the Boston Journal; 
"Pussy Willow," in the Portland Transcript; "Web- 
ster." in the New York Observer; "The Peppermint," in 
Park's Floral Magazine, and " The Trout of the Moun- 
tain Stream " and " New Hampshire's Mountain Forests," 
in Forest and Stream. F. B. Warner & Co. were the 
publishers of "An Opal Morn," and Richard G. Badger 
of "What the Roses Said," "Old Home Week," and 
"The Summer Outing." From the Granite Monthly 
have been taken not only many poems but most of the 
illustrations of this book. Lee & Shepard, publishers of 



the poems of Sam Walter Foss, have consented to the 
use of "The Road to Boston, 1 ' "The Bloodless Sports- 
man," and " The Tree Lover." "An Invitation," by 
James T. Fields; "Echo Song," "Before the Rain," 
and "Memory," by Thomas Bailey Aldrich ; "The 
Sandpiper," "Enthralled," and "August, 11 by Celia 
Thaxter; "Pan," by Alice Brown; and " Contoocook 
River, 11 " Monadnock in October, 11 and " Kearsarge," 
by Edna Dean Proctor, are used by special permission 
of and by arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 
publishers of their works. 



CONTENTS. 



Spring ..... 
Pussy Willow .... 






PAGE. 
I 


April 

April 

A Morning Walk to Rock Rimmon 






3 
5 
6 


May' 

The Sweet May-Time 






7 
8 


May 

The Hermit Thrush . 






IO 

1 1 


The Trout of the Mountain Stream 






12 


An Invitation .... 






*5 


Sunset on Mount Washington . 






16 


Decoration Day 






iS 


Memory ..... 






20 


Song IX .... 






21 


June ..... 






2 2 


On the Heights 






^4 


Harebells .... 






27 


Echo Song .... 






28 


The Sunset .... 






30 


Under the Old Elm . 






3i 



At Twilight . 








32 


Even-Song of the Toilers 






34 


Moonlight on the Uncanoonuci 






37 


Rain in June . 






38 


Sarracenia 








39 


What the Roses Said 








40 


Nature's Spirit 








42 


Ocean-Skies 








43 


Flood Tide 








44 


July 








46 


By Lake Sunapee 








47 


A Summer Morning Hour 


with 


Nature 




48 


Stanza X 








5i 


The Teacher's Summer 








5 2 


The Peppermint 








54 


Whip-poor-will 








56 


My Orioles 








58 


Spreading Hay 








60 


Daisies and Clover . 








62 


On Lake Winnipesaukee 








64 


The Indian 








67 


Cow Bells 








68 


Day-Lilies 








7i 


The Spirit of the Woods 








74 


Water-Lilies . 








76 


Contoocook River 








78 


A Hammock Song . 








82 


My Garden 








83 


August . 








84 



Before the Rain 








35 


In a Fog 








86 


Salting the Cattle 








87 


The Ruby-Throated Humming- 


Bird 






90 


The Summer Outing 








92 


A Picture 








93 


The Island . . . . 








94 


A Flurry 








96 


Sonnet LXXXVII . 








98 


From Joe English Hill 








99 


The Song of the Sea 








101 


Sunrise on Sunapee Mountain 








103 


Lake Sunapee . 








105 


When Storms Awake 








107 


Pan .... 








108 


To the Wild Ammonoosuc 








1 12 


Whiteface 








114 


Old Home Week . 








115 


Dear Granite Hills . 








116 


The Ninth Star 








117 


The Road to Boston 








120 


The Deserted Farmhouse . 








i^3 


Four- Leaved Clover . 








124 


Chocorua 








126 


The Crickets . 








127 


September 








128 


The Sandpiper 








130 


The White Hills 








132 


The Mountains of North Conws 


y 






*33 



To the Stone Face . 

The Old Log Trough 

New Hampshire's Mountain Fo 

The Tree Lover 

Kearsarge 

Webster 

From the Piazza 

October . 

Monadnock in October 

When the Summer Days Have 

October .... 

Autumn Among the Hills 

In Autumn 

Ye Old Stone Wall . 

Nutting Time . 

Enthralled 

Loving Hearts 

The Bloodless Sportsman . 

An Opal Morn 

Hazel Bloom . 

Autumn .... 

A Faded Leaf . 

Farewell to My Summer Home 

A Memory Treasure . 

On the Piscataqua . 



Fled 



ests 



134 
136 

139 
142 

145 

148 

15' 
152 

155 
156 

'57 
158 

'59 

163 
166 
169 
171 
172 
174 

175 

176 
177 
180 
182 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



James M. Adams, La Gloria, Cuba. 

Formerly of North Weare, N. H. 
Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Boston, Mass. 

Native of Portsmouth, N. H. 
Mrs. Florence A. D. Atwood, New Boston, N. H, 
Mrs. Adelaide George Bennett, Pipestone, Minn. 

Native of Warner, N. H. 
*Henry Ames Blood, Washington, D. C. 

Native of Temple, N. H. 
Mrs. Augusta Cooper Bristol, Vineland, N. J. 

Native of Croydon, N. H. 
Miss Alice Brown, Boston, Mass. 

Native of Hampton Falls, N. H. 
George Waldo Browne, Manchester, N. H. 
Mrs. Laura Garland Carr, Concord, N. H. 
Rev. Nathan F. Carter, Concord, N. H. 
Bela Chapin, Claremont, N. H. 
Charles Henry Chesley, South Barrington, N. H. 
Sumner F. Claflin, Manchester, N. H. 
* Deceased. 



Adelbert Clark, Lakeport, N. H. 
Clark B. Cochrane, Antrim, N. H. 
Frederick Myron Colby, Warner, N. H. 
Mrs. Helen Field Comstock, Rochelle, 111. 

Native of Chesterfield, N. H. 
John W. Condon, Manchester, N. H. 
Rev. Allen E. Cross, Brookline, Mass. 

Formerly of Manchester, N. H. 
*Hon. Moody Currier, Manchester, N. H. 
Miss Mary M. Currier, Wentworth, N. H. 
* James T. Fields. 

Native of Portsmouth, N. H. 

Josiah M. Fletcher, Nashua, N. H. 
■Mrs. Lisa A. Fletcher, Manchester, N. H. 
Sam Walter Foss, Somerville, Mass. 

Native of Candia, N. H. 
Frank M. Frisselle, Manchester, N. H. 
Mrs. Lucy J. H. Frost, Concord, N. H. 
George Bancroft Griffith, East Lempster, N. H. 
Miss Ella M. Haines, North Hampton, N. H. 
Arthur Sherburne Hardy, Madrid, Spain. 

Formerly of Dartmouth College, Hanover, N. Ii. 
William S. Harris, Windham, N. H. 
Mrs. Mary R. P. Hatch, Hanover, N. H. 
Mrs. Clara B. Heath, Manchester, N. H. 
Mrs. Rosilla W. Heath, Epsom, N. H. 
*Mrs. Mary E. Erwin Hobbs, Madison, N. H. 
Edward A. Jenks, Concord, N. H. 



Mrs. Emma A. Kimball, East Haverhill, Mass. 

Native of Rye, N. H. 
Miss Harriet McEwen Kimball, Portsmouth, N. H. 
Mrs. Althine F. S. Lear, Mill Village, N H.. 
Rev. Arthur Locke, Plainville, Conn. 

Formerly of Bradford, N. H. 
Charles C. Lord, Hopkinton, N. H. 
Mrs. Carrie White Osgood, Claremont, N. H. 
Mrs. Eliza A. Otis, Los Angeles, Cal. 

Native of Walpole, N. H. 
Prof. Fred Lewis Pattee, State College, Pa. 

Native of Bristol, N. II. 
*Mrs. Abby Hutchinson Patton. 

Native of Milford, N. II. 
* William Plumer, Epping, N. H. 
Miss Edna Dean Proctor, Framingham, Mass. 

Native of Henniker, N. H. 
Mrs. Vienna G. Ramsey, Dover, N. H. 
Dr. John P. Rand, Monson, Mass. 

Native of Francestown, N. II. 
*Dr. N. Wheeler Rand, Monson, Mass. 

Native of Francestown, N. H. 

Jeremiah E. Rankin, D. D., LL. D., Washington, D. C. 
Native of Thornton, N. H. 

Miss Laura A. Rice, Franklin Falls, N. H. 
Oliver S. Rice, Lancaster, N. H. 
Mrs. Annie D. G. Robinson, Bristol, N. H. 
Miss Alice P. Sargent, Plymouth, N. H. 



Moses Gage Shirley, Goffstown, N. H. 
Mrs. Etta U. Snow, Manchester, N. H. 
Mrs. L. E. Chellis Story, Claremont, N. H. 
* William Cant Sturoc, Sunapee, N. H. 
Mrs. C. Jennie Swaine, Dover, N. H. 
*Mrs. Celia Thaxter. 

Native of Portsmouth, N. H. 
Stephen Henry Thayer, New York, N. Y. 

Native of New Ipswich, N. H. 
Mrs. Adelaide Cilley Waldron, Farmington, N. H. 
Horace Eaton Walker, Claremont, N. H. 
Col. Samuel Webber, Charlestown. N. H. 
*Miss Emily Greene Wetherbee, Laurence, Mass. 

Native of Milford, N. H. 
Mrs. Mary H. Wheeler, Pittsfield, N. H. 
Mrs. Caroline E. Whiton-Stone, South Boston, Mass. 

Native of Portsmouth, N. H. 
*Miss Constance Fenimore Woolson. 

Native of Claremont, N. II. 



SPRING. 

Charles C. Lord. 

O softened air ! O gentle sway ! 

A breath dissolves the icy chain 
That binds a world. With emblems gay 

Bright nature celebrates amain. 
The fields, the woods, their tributes bring, - 
Bloom, little bud, for this is spring! 

Glad sounds of melody awake 

And fill the day. Unfettered streams 

Leap down the vales, and, tuneful, make 
The concert grand with bounding themes. 

Untutored voices, joyful, ring, — 

Trill, little bird, for this is spring! 

O transport of the stolid earth ! 

O rapture of the moodless sky ! 
The realms exult in conscious birth 

And blessing, as the moments fly. 
Chaste fancies sweet take buoyant wing, — 
Love, little heart, for this is spring! 



PUSSY WILLOW. 

Mary R. P. Hatch. 

Pussy Willow, softly hooded, 

Sits in state upon her tree, 
With arbutus sweet and pink-faced 

Meekly nestling at her knee. 
Fair yet saucy, bright yet stately, 

Pussy Willow mocks the breeze, 
Laughs when courted, sighs when flouted, 

Ah ! she dearly loves to tease. 
But her majesty is routed, 

And her gracious beauties yield 
To the clutch of bare, brown fingers 

Reaching up from sodden field. 
O sweet willow, fair and bright, 
What a fall from thy proud height ! 



APRIL. 

Althine F. S. Lear. 

O dreary April morning ! 

Your raindrops fall like tears, 
While through the melting snow-drifts 

The brown, old earth appears. 
No hint of summer's beauty 

Is in the earth or air ; 
The woods and hills and meadows 

Are desolate and bare. 

But hark ! from out this treetop 

So sudden, sweet, and clear, 
There comes a bird's glad carol 

Upon my listening ear. 
'Tis strong, and true, and tender, 

With such a merry ring, — 
The singer was so happy 

He could not choose but sing! 

And looking close I see him, 

'Mid branches bare and brown 

A merry, little bluebird — 

Go flitting up and down. 
He has no gay companions, 

No house nor home has he ; 
Alone and yet not lonely, 

His song is full of glee. 



How can he know what beauty 

Is budding all around, 
And how with summer's glory 

The world will soon be crowned; 
I 'm sure he has no storehouse 

Of gold, nor yet of grain, 
But fearless of the future 

He 's singing in the rain. 

happy, little preacher, 

In coat of brightest blue,- 

1 find that I am smiling 

In sympathy with you ! 
I understand your sermon 

Without a single word ; 
My faith is surely strengthened 

By yours, my little bird! 



APRIL. 

Josiah M. Fletcher. 

The shimmer of the April sun, how beautiful it seems 
Upon the dancing billows of the spring-awakened streams ! 
Its lustre like a living thing upon the water lies, 
And sheds its silent offering of glory from the skies. 

The softness of the April skies, — there cannot be a doubt 
But in the sunny nooks the sweet arbutus ventures out ; 
For in the April air there seems a prophecy of hope 
That wakes the woodland from its dreams, and bids the 
blossom ope. 

And yet so coy are April's moods, so maiden-like her 
charms, 

She makes a dozen flights before she takes us to her 
arms ; 

But with a joyful tenderness we catch her kiss at last, 

And feel the summer's blessedness, and know the win- 
ter past. 



A MORNING WALK TO ROCK RIMMON. 

Sumner F. Claflin. 

I walk in the glow of morning, 

In the bare, brown fields of spring, 
To the gray rocks raising their sober crests 
Above the trees where the robin nests, 
And the little brown birds sing. 

I shun the jarring, the voices, 

The noisy engines of men ; 
My shrine is the mayflower's hidden nook, 
Filled with sweet music, the gurgling brook 

That runs through the quiet glen. 

How like a cooling mother-hand 

On the brow of a tired child 
The winds of the piney woods caress! 
The breath of spring comes down to bless 

My soul with influence mild. 

I sit on the sun-kissed rocks, 

As quiet and moveless as they, 
And watch the winding fog belts rise 
Over the rivers, to melt in the skies, 

And I dream of the far away. 



MAY. 
Mary E. Erwin Hobbs. 

The trees are bursting into green, 

The violets into blue ; 
While here and there in golden sheen 
The dandelion's crest is seen 
To peep the spears of grass between, 

Impearled in morning dew. 

No more the fickle cloudlets fly 

As in those April days, 
But calm and placid, clear and high, 
And earnest as a loving eye, 
The blue looks down from yonder sky 

With deep, unbroken gaze. 

The dear old robin pipes no more 

In melancholy strain, 
But gazing on her treasures four 
She counts the blue eggs o'er and o'er, 
Each time more joyous than before, 

Then sings a glad refrain. 



THE SWEET MAY-TIME. 
Stephen Henry Thayer. 

May ! whose wild birds sing to me 
Their maiden songs, whose timid dowers 
Make answer to the April showers, 

Whose streams leap toward the summer sea ; 

Whose azure skies and dreamful woods 
Are yet unveiled by summer mist, 
Whose maidenhood is yet unkissed 

By summer's sultry solitudes : 

1 love thy youth, — 'tis the first fire 

That warms the petals of the soul ; 
That promises a blossomed whole 
To the sweet wish of young Desire. 

Not heaped with treasure comest thou, 
Nor with a golden honeymoon 
That brings its full delight so soon, 

But only with a lover's vow, — 

Only the promise and the spring, 

Only the harbinger that holds 

In many closely fitting folds 
The germ of some great offering. 



O May ! thou hast the love of youth 
Imbosomed in thy spirit, given 
Like some diviner faith of heaven 

Betrothed to its eternal truth. 



MAY. 

Be la Chap hi. 

The charming days of lovely May, 
With all the groves in green array. 

Are come new joy to yield ; 
The sunshine and descending rain 
Hasten the growth of rising grain 

In every farmer's field. 

How blissful now the sweet perfume 
Pervading all the orchard bloom, 

Of many an opening flower ! 
From apple, cherry, plum, and pear 
There comes a fragrance on the air 

To bless the spring-time hour. 



THE HERMIT THRUSH. 
Rondel. 

Fred Lewis Pattee. 

Far, far away, in evening's hush, 
We caught a plaintive, liquid lay ; 

The lonely, love-lorn hermit thrush 
Who sang the vesper hymn of day. 

The fragrant air was drunk with May, 
While from the marsh's tangled brush, 

Far, far away, in evening's hush, 
We caught a plaintive, liquid lay. 

The mist stole from the meadows lush, 
The day's glad chorus died away, 

Save, half unheard, the river's rush, 

And where, like murmurs from its spray 

Far, far away, in evening's hush, 
We caught a plaintive, liquid lay. 



u 



THE TROUT OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 

Samuel Webber. 

Some sing of the bass with his glittering mail, 
Or the giant tarpon with silver scale ; 
But the angler's joy, and the artist's dream, 
Is the spotted trout of the mountain stream. 

With his mottled sides, and his shapely mold, 
And his crimson stars with their fringe of gold, 
With his painted fins, and his silvery gleam, 
He's the jeweled prince of the mountain stream. 

With widespread mouth and glittering eye 
He springs from his lair at the dancing fly, 
Then, swift as the shaft from the bended bow, 
Shoots down to his home in the depths below. 

When soft from the south the breezes blow, 
When the waters are cleared from the melting snow, 
When the earth awakes from her winter's dream, 
I will seek for the trout of the mountain stream. 

When the apple blossoms are snowy white, 
And the swamps with the scarlet maple bright ; 
When the silvery birch has donned its sheen, 
And the marshy meadows are fringed with green ; 



When the bobolink on the poke-stalk swings, 
And the hermit thrush in the woodland sings, 
Then I'll seek for the trout in his mountain home, 
In the sparkling verge of the cataract's foam. 




"/'// seek for the trout in his mountain lioiiu , i'' 1 

'Tis there in the water's wildest play 

That he lies in wait for his floating prey. 

Or shoots on his course through the swiftest stream 

With an arrowy rush, and a meteor's gleam. 



n 



When the skies grow warm, and the sun rides high, 

'Neath the spreading alders he loves to lie ; 

Or he seeks his lair by some mossy stone 

Which the frost from the hanging cliff has thrown. 

Then, angler, if you would his capture try, 
Choose your finest line, and your daintiest fly ; 
Let your step be light, and your cast be true, 
Or the trout will have nothing to say to you. 

When your fly, like the clown from a thistle blown, 
Drops soft on the ripples around yon stone, 
That silvery bar which shoots up to air 
Says the starry monarch was lurking there. 

When the bending rod and the ringing reel 
Give proof that you've fastened the tempered steel, 
Be sure that the battle is but begun, 
For not till he's landed is victory won. 

Pleasant to you is the mimic strife, 
But the fight, with the trout, is a fight for life ! 
And not till his utmost strength is tried 
Will he, fainting, roll on his glittering side. 

Then give me the trout of the mountain stream 
With his crimson stars and his golden gleam ; 
When the conquered hero gasping lies 
The angler has won his fairest prize ! 



M 



AN INVITATION. 

James T. Fields. 

The warm, wide Mils are muffled thick with green, 
And fluttering swallows till the air with song. 
Come to our cottage home. Lowly it stands, 
Set in a vale of flowers, deep fringed with grass. 
The sweet brier (noiseless herald of the place) 
Flies with its odor meeting all who roam 
With welcome footsteps to our small abode. 
No splendid cares live here, no barren shows. 
The bee makes harbor at our perfumed door, 
And hums all day his breezy note of joy. 
Come, O my friend ! and share our festal month, 
And while the west-wind walks the leafy woods, 
While orchard blooms are white in all the lanes, 
And brooks make music in the deep, cool dells, 
Enjoy the golden moments as they pass, 
And gain new strength for days that are to come. 



J 5 



SUNSET ON MOUNT WASHINGTON. 

George Waldo Browne. 

The golden arrows cleave thy snowy crown, 
While thy dark vestments take a deeper brown ; 
The twilight watchers ward each darkening zone, 
And, bolder grown, usurp the sunlight's throne. 
Blow, west wind, blow! ay, set the wild news flying: 
" The reign of day is o'er — its king is dying !" 

The sun, a broken circle, half concealed, 

Sinks 'neath the glimmer of the golden field ; 

A shining halo on the azure space 

Fast flees beyond the walls of light and place. 

Moan, east wind, moan ! ay, set the wild news flying 

"The reign of day is o'er — its king is dying!" 

A crumbling castle 'cross the shadowy lands 

Against the sky now silhouetted stands ; 

A bar of bronze and silver at its door 

Now falls the wan day's purple threshold o'er. 

Sigh, south wind, sigh ! ay, set the wild news flying : 

" The reign of day is o'er — its king is dying !" 

The legions leap o'er castellated wall, 

O'er ramparts frowning high, o'er sky, and all ; 

The long light from thy hoary summit flees 

Like spirit hosts across the forest seas. 

Shriek, north wind, shriek ! ay, set the wild news flying : 

'• The king is dying !" echo answers " dyin< 



•s ■ 



16 



The twilight hangs a curtain day and night 
Between. Afar and near the stars in might 
Begin their watch, while Venus sets on high 
Her home-light in the window of the sky. 
Swift-winged winds abroad the news have spread 
" The day is done — its king is dying — dead !" 



DECORATION DAY. 

John P. Rand. 

Not for the dead alone this day we cherish ; 
For all our brave deserve as well 
As those who in the conflict fell ; 
Each risked his all, — no one could tell 
Which was to perish. 

Not for the dead alone we bring these flowers ; 
But for their parents bowed with years, 
Their children, whom this day endears, 
For wives and sisters yet in tears, — 
Their griefs are ours. 

Not for the dead alone these ensigns gory ; 
But to impress on every eye 
At what a cost we still may fly 
That fabric fashioned from the sky, 
Our nation's glory ! 

Not for the dead alone the drums are beating ; 
But listening ears shall catch the strain, 
And comrades join the sad refrain, 
Till heart to heart shall beat again 
In solemn greeting. 



Not_for the dead alone commemoration ; 
But that our sons be taught to-day 
The price their fathers had to pay 
To keep, and unto them convey, 
This mighty nation. 

Not for the dead alone, — ah ! truly not ; 
But for an object lesson grand, 
That all the world may understand 
The valiant saviours of this land 
Are not forgot ! 



19 



MEMORY. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

My mind lets go a thousand things, 
Likes dates of wars and deaths of kings, 
And yet recalls the very hour — 
'Twas noon by yonder village tower. 
And on the last blue morn in May — 
The wind came briskly up this way, 
Crisping the brook beside the road ; 
Then, pausing here, set down its load 
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly 
Two petals from that wild-rose tree. 



SONG IX. 

Arthur Sherburne Hardy. 

Beloved, when far up the mountain side 

We found, almost at eventide, 

Our spring, how we did fear 
Lest it should dare the trackless wood 

And disappear ! 
And lost all heart when on the crest we stood 

And saw it spent in mist below ! 

Yet ever surer was its flow, 

And, ever gathering to its own 

New springs of which we had not known. 
To fairer meadows 
Swept exultant from the woodland shadows ; 
And when at last upon the baffling plain 
We thought it scattered like a raveled skein, — 

Lo, tranquil, free, 
Its longed-for home, the wide, unfathomable sea ! 

From "Songs of Two " by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons 



JUNE. 
Mary E. Erwin Hobbs. 

Month of my heart ! with what a growth of green 

Thou comest to the garland of the year ! • 
What snows have sifted, storms have swept between 

The June long vanished and the June now here ! 
What wealth of faded foliage beneath 

Thy feet, forgotten, lies in earth entombed, — - 
Sweet flowers on which the dying year did breathe, 

Half opened petals, buds that never bloomed ! 

And from the ashes of the buried year 

Spring, phoenix-like, the glories of to-day ; 
The vernal wrappings that thy forests wear, 

The star-strewn emerald of thy carpet gay. 
For thee alone the opening roses blush 

And breathe their fragrance out in many a sigh ; 
The listless air grows heavy with the hush, 

And wooing zephyrs faint in ecstasy. 

I hail thy coming ; and a gladder song 

Goes up from every warbler of the plain ; 
For greener trees and bluer skies belong 

To thee than any follower in thy train. 
The rustling of thy leafy robes I heard 

In the soft music of the April showers, 
And caught the far-off trill of coming bird, 

And breathed the fragrance of thine unborn flowers. 



And thou art here ! I feel it in the lull 

That steals o'er nature's bounding pulse to-day, 
The spring retires and leaves the summer full 

Of brimming beauty, dauntless of decay. 
I hear thy presence in the whispering air, 

The lifting leaf, the honey-bee's low tune, 
The drowsy hum of insects everywhere ; 

The world is full of thee, O peerless June ! 



ON THE HEIGHTS. 

Carrie White Osgood. 

Through upland meadows, wide and bright 
In the glowing green of early June, 

We climbed with many a laugh and jest 
That summer afternoon 

To the pasture bars, a barrier set 
Between the Eden of clover-dew 

And the rugged steep, on whose stony breast 
Only the wild things grew, — 

Mullein, slim as a half-grown lad, 
Sweet fern, still in the tender leaf, 

And thistle, hugging its downy buds, 
The pasture's armored chief. 

Above us towered the wooded height, 

Heavily green to its lofty crest ; 
A granite ledge, like a river of rock, 

Swept down to the level west. 

Steeper and rougher grew the path, 
Barred by boulder and gnarled limb, 

And each dark hemlock along the way 
Stood like a warder grim. 



24 



But, leagued in a merry troop, we pressed 

Steadily on, like a stubborn foe ; 
At last we stood on the windy crest 

In the rosy sunset glow. 

We felt the conqueror's joy who sees 
The lands of his conquest meekly lie 

About him, and thinks but to reach 
A hand and grasp the sky. 

To the edge of the shelving rock we crept 

As one leans over a limpid well ; 
Down, far down in the crystal depth, 

Covert and sunny dell, 

Rocky fallow and furrowed field 

Sloped to a vale the gods might choose, 

Where the river curved, with the dappled town 
Caught in its silver noose. 

Misty-blue in the far southwest 
Like gauzy curtains, fold on fold, 

The Green Hills clung to the sunset sky 
Veiling its burning gold ; 

And over against our lesser height 
Rose up Ascutney, vast and grand, 

So near it might across the vale 
Reach forth a clasping hand. 



25 



Its purple lights grew dim and gray, 
The splendor faded from its crest, 

The velvet shadows closer drew 
About its mighty breast. 

Beyond the blue Connecticut 

The summer sun went slowly down, 

And here and there a twinkling star 
Gleamed faintly from the town. 

The full moon climbed the cloudless east 
And gave the world a second day ; 

Through pastures rich with evening dews 
We took the homeward way. 



26 



HAREBELLS. 

Lisa A. Fletcher. 

Swing, swing over the rocks, 

Delicate, airy bells ! 
Ring, ring for the fairy folks 

Who hide in yonder dells ! 
Human ears can hear no sound, 
Yet the fairy people 'round 
When the breezes softly play 
Hear your pealing far away. 

Swing, swing over gray stones, 

Violet-tinted flower ! 
Ring, ring ! the pine tree moans 

Above thy summer bower. 
When they hear thy tender bell 
Fairies know that all is well ; 
O haste the passing breeze to woo, 
And ring thy bells across the dew ! 



27 



ECHO SONG. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

I. 

Who can say where Echo dwells ? 
In some mountain cave methinks, 
Where the white owl sits and blinks ; 
Or in deep, sequestered dells 
Where the foxglove hangs its bells 
Echo dwells. 
Echo ! 

Echo ! 

II. 

Phantom of the crystal air, 
Daughter of sweet mystery ! 
Here is one hath need of thee ; 
Lead him to thy secret lair, 
Myrtle brings he for thy hair ; 
Hear his prayer. 
Echo ! 

Echo ! 



28 



III. 

Echo, lift thy drowsy head, 
And repeat each charmed word 
Thou must needs have overheard 
Yestere'en ere, rosy-red, 
Daphne down the valley tied, 
Words unsaid. 
Echo ! 

Echo ! 

IV. 

Breathe the vows she since denies ! 
She hath broken every vow ; 
What she would she would not now. 
Thou didst hear her perjuries. 
Whisper, whilst I shut my eyes, 
Those sweet lies. 
Echo ! 

Echo ! 



29 



THE SUNSET. 

Eliza A. Otis. 

The sun is sinking in the golden west ; 

The winds scarce whisper 'mid the many leaves ; 
One shining star eve wears upon her breast, 

And glorious are the colors that she weaves 

On the far mountain tops, whose purpling hue 
Is mixed with sunbeams day hath left behind, 

Spreading their glory out beneath the blue, 
Paving a path for the soft-footed wind. 

How still the earth, as if she musing lay, 
Or told her beads beneath the coming stars ! 

The shadows fall. Goodnight, O lovely day! 
Within the west the sunset draws her bars. 

O the great vast that lies within the night ! 

Thought cannot bridge it ; fancy doth not dare. 
What endless orbits, hidden from our sight, 

In which great worlds are circling, everywhere! 

Be still, my soul, and know that God is here, 
His hand on all things through eternal space, 

Guiding each sun, each planetary sphere, 
As it sweeps on in its allotted place. 



3° 



UNDER THE OLD ELM. 

Edzvard A. Jenks. 

And this is June; — these overhanging boughs 
Invite us — nay, entice us — to a rest 
Upon this soft, green, fragrant mother-breast, 
Where we may watch the sweet home-coming cows 
Wind down the hill, and listen to the vows 
We have no right to hear from that small nest 
That swings above us, while the waning west 
Breathes benedictions on our throbbing brows. 
Here we will dream the twilight hours away 
Beneath this ample firmament of leaves, 
And listen to the whirr of unseen wings 
Within the shadows, while the soft airs play 

The songs our mother sang, that time nor thieves 
Can filch from metrfry's storehouse — Hark! she 
sings ! 



3 1 



AT TWILIGHT. 

Laura A. Rice. 

The twilight scatters its purple gloom, 
The roses shed their sweet perfume, 

And the daylight dies. 
The stars come out in the quiet sky, 
The fireflies swing their lanterns high, 
The whippoorwill's song in the orchard near 
Falls on the listening ear. 

Then to my arms comes my little child, 
His hair so fair, his blue eyes mild, 

And my heart is still. 
O'er me an angel seems to have smiled, 
And shed his brightness, undehled 
By earth and its sorrow and care so rife 
Which come to every life. 

I tell him the story, often told, 

That the stars are lambs in heaven's fold 

In the world above ; 
That the moon, the shining shepherdess, keeps 
Watch o'er her flock while the earth-world sleeps, 
Then, guiding them toward the gates of day, 
She hides them all away. 



The fair head droops, and the violet eyes 
Are closed, for he to dreamland hies, 

And the stars keep watch ; 
The whippoorwill sings her plaintive song, 
The brook in the meadow hastes along, 
The night dews are falling, the shades are deep. 
And my boy is asleep. 



THE EVEN-SONG OF THE TOILERS. 

R os ill a W. Heath. 

The night walks briskly down the vale, 
Creeps slowly up the mountain's side ; 

Day's luminous path is growing pale, 

While in the east night's queen doth ride, — 
" Come home, O, come home !" 

O'erwearied with the day's great heat, 

See, birds and beasts have sought their rest ; 

Oh ! toiler, heed the accents sweet, 
The summons of a loving breast, 

" Come home, O, come home!" 

Glad fishers on the sea to-night, 
You quickly dip the dripping oar, 

And watch your cottage beacon light, — 
Sweet voices calling from the shore, 
" Come home, O, come home !" 

Haste from the field, they wait for you ; 

Haste from the shop, they watch the street; 
Eyes at the gate are peeping through, 

And there are sounds of tiny feet, — 
'• Come home, O, come home ! " 



34 



This is the hour for grateful prayer ; 

This is the hour for joyful song. 
Now drop the burden of your care, 

Forget life has an ill or wrong, — 

" Come home, O, come home ! " 

The day goes out and silent night 
Pours balm of rest upon the air ; 

Home's altar fires are burning bright ; 
Love is the priestess serving there, — 
'« Come home, O, come home !" 



35 



MOONLIGHT ON THE UNCANOONUCS. 

Moses Gage Shirley. 

How soft the moonlight falls upon each crest 
Of our loved mountains ! In a limpid sheen 
Of silvered gold they lie, at peace, serene, 

Like tired children on their mother's breast. 

The kingly pines stand tall and emerald-crowned ; 
The beech leaves rustle faintly in the breeze, 
And gently sway the branches of the trees. 

A fox's shrill bark, the while I muse, doth sound 
Within the woods, and slowly die away. 

Ah, this is night ! and such a night as this, 

Thrilled by the rapture of the moon's soft kiss, 
Doth almost seem as glorious as day. 

Dream, mountains, till the moonlight's mellow bliss 
Fades out, and morning streaks the sky with gray ! 



37 



RAIN IN JUNE. 
Caroline E. Whiton-Stone. 

When the day broke there was no trace of sun. 

A chill, pale, clinging vapor hid the skies, 

And the rain fell like tears from hopeless eyes, 
As if accepting that earth's joys were done. 
The flowers in apathy could not be won 

To lift their heads and flaunt their flaming dyes, 

And o'er the aspens in their leaden guise 
No protests seemed from leaf to leaf to run. 
Not once the clouds grew lighter in the west ; 

Not once the vapor could its hold forget. 
The listless rain the listless air oppressed, 

Heavy as an insoluble regret; 
And so the day went mourning forth, in quest 

Of that June sun, unrisen and unset. 



33 



SARRACENIA. 

Fred Lewis Pattee. 

In trackless bogs that skirt the forest lake, 
'Mid water-blasted shrubs and tangled swale, 
The haunt of bittern and of water rail, 

Of dragon-fly and slimy water snake, 

At dead of June, half hidden in the brake, 
I find thy tiny beakers chaste and frail 
As rare Satsuma, packed in mosses pale, 

And thy strange bloomless bloom but half awake. 

O pitcher-bearer to the sylvan Pan, 
If Pan there be in these far solitudes, 
I love thy purple bowl where darkly lie 
The mysteries of regions strange to man ! 
I love thee who hast never left the woods, 
Thy native northern bogs, except to die ! 



39 



WHAT THE ROSES SAID 

Augusta Cooper Bristol. 

This is what the roses said 

One transcendent summer morning 

When the light clouds overhead, 
Heedless of my mortal scorning, 

Drank the rays of golden red ; 

When the wild birds 1 solemn trill, 
Where the river runneth still, 

Filled me with a hungry dread ; 

When my life no truth could render 
For the world's mistaken splendor; 

When I thought my heart was dead, 

This is what the roses said : 

" Crimson leaf and pollen gold 
Born of darkness and the mould ! 
Every perfect leaf and fruitage 
Rises from a grave-like rootage, 
And the strong wild winds that rock us, 
And the tempest storms that shock us, 
And the snows upon the lea, 
All are certain guaranty 
Of perfection yet to be ; 
Of a beauty more complete 
For the shadow at its feet ; 
Greener strength, and fairer bloom, 
Sweeter breathings of perfume, 



40 



Deep hearts filled with richer balm, 
May-days more divinely calm, 
Fairer Teachings into light, 
Firmer growth, and nobler height. 
Light and peace from shade and strife 
Is the paradox of life, 
For one sweet, Eternal Will 
In the darkness worketh still." 

This is what the roses said, 

Shaming all my foolish scorning, 
That transcendant summer morning 

When I thought my heart was dead. 



41 



NATURE'S SPIRIT. 

Helen Field Comstock. 

A stillness reigns; no leaf is stirred; 
Yet come weird murmurs scarcely heard. 
And 1 neath the hush, a stir, as strife 
Of growing things instinct with life, 

Increasing, till, distinct in tone 
As sighing trees or wind-harp's moan, 
It holds the thrilled, fast-beating heart 
Ecstatic, wrapt, of it a part. 

It comes from depths where sea-weeds rare 
Are floating 'round the mermaid fair ; 
From where brooks gleam and blossoms sweet 
A carpet weave for Naiad feet. 

It swells to notes almost divine 
As winds disturb the ancient shrine 
Of gray old oak or solemn pine 
Where mosses creep and ivies twine. 

It casts its spell o'er ruined tower, 

It floats the same through vine-wreathed bower 

'Tis felt alike through earth and air, — 

'T is Nature's spirit everywhere. 



42 



OCEAN-SKIES. 

Lisa A. Fletcher. 

Tender waves that ripple across a sea-sky floor. 
Touching, touching, touching upon a silent shore ; 
Mighty vessels bearing across the azure zone, 
Sailing, sailing, sailing for some port unknown. 

Tremulous gleams of color where a fair sail drifteth slow, 
Throbbing, throbbing, throbbing as the sun sinketh low; 
Tiny skiffs and sail-boats what time the breezes die 
Rocking, rocking, rocking where at anchorage they lie. 

Sweet hopes that lie at anchor in the heart's becalmed seas, 
Waiting, waiting, waiting for a freshening breeze ; 
Thoughts that go a-sailing along life's ocean-sky, 
Sweeping, sweeping, sweeping its utmost boundary. 



43 



FLOOD TIDE. 

Stefhen Henry Thayer. 

The flooding tide is drifting o'er the sand ; 

It sweeps far up beyond the ocean's edge 
To bear its foamy crest along the strand 

In thundering laughters to the rocky ledge. 

What throbbings stir the sea from inward deeps, 
That all the world is girded with its song? 

What life from some perennial fountain keeps 
Its billows rolling through the ages long? 

When years were few and fair within my breast 
I did not question thus, for then I felt 

The same wild flood of life, of glad unrest, 
From the full fountain that within me dwelt. 

But hark ! the sea is calm and peaceful now ; 

The noon has stilled its giant waves ; it lies 
Serene, reflecting back the bending brow 

Of heaven, the cloud and purple of its skies. 

Ah, Life ! thy noon hath touched my pulse, and lo ! 

Its vexing tumults for a moment cease ; 
The flooding tide has had its noisy flow, 

And, ebbing, soon will murmur its decrease. 



44 



O Sea ! O Life ! whose passioned youth is gone, 
Since thou must wane ere yet the day is dead, 

Bear to some other golden-freighted morn 
Thy swelling tide, its happy shore to wed ; 

Yet let thy music through the memory sound 
With soft, receding echoes from the past, 

Until I hear thy circling tides rebound, 

Bringing with them immortal youth at last ! 




45 



JULY. 
Fred Lewis Pattee. 

The quivering air is filled with heat ; 
All is silent as a dream, 
Save the murmur of a stream, 
Save the locust's far-off scream, 

And drowsy crickets at my feet. 

Oh, lead me to some leafy glen 

Where the morning dew yet clings, 
Where the matin bird yet sings, 
And each cooling zephyr brings 

The odors of the mossy fen ! 

What fitter task, then, could there be 
On this drowsy summer day, 
From all trouble far away, 
Than to list the wood-bird's lay, 

And dream, my love, and dream of thee? 



BY LAKE SUNAPEE. 

Clark B. Cochrane. 

Oh, how delightful is the mountain air 

Cooled on thy crested water, Sunapee ! 

We wonder if Lake Leman is more fair, 

More sweet the gales of storied Araby. 

We breathe the breath of lilies, and the balm 

Of woods forever green, while from the calm, 

Like sounds of far-off voices drawing near, 

The coming of the summer wind we hear 

In the long branches ; rising like a psalm 

Of peace upon thy shore, more sweet, more clear 

Than song of angels to the morning star, 

When, from the rifted darkness of old time, 

Kearsarge and Sunapee arose sublime 

To watch thy face forever, from afar. 



47 



A SUMMER MORNING HOUR WITH NATURE. 

Augusta Cooper Bristol. 

The Night has gathered up her moonlit fringes 

And curtains gray, 
And orient gates, that turn on silver lunges, 

Let in the Day. 

The morning sun his golden eye-lash raises 

O'er eastern hills ; 
The happy summer bird with matin praises 

The thicket fills. 

And Nature's dress, with softly tinted roses 

And lilies wrought, 
Through all its varied unity discloses 

God's perfect thought. 

Sweet Nature ! hand in hand with her I travel 

Adown the mead, 
And half her precious mysteries unravel, 

Her scripture read. 

And while the soft wind lifts her tinted pages, 

And turns them o'er, 
My heart goes back to one in by-gone ages 

Who loved her lore, 

48 



And symbols used of harvest field, and fountain, 

And breezy air ; 
Who sought the sacred silence of the mountain 

For secret prayer. 

Oh ! drop, my soul, the burden that oppresses, 

The cares that rule, 
That I may prove the whispering wildernesses, 

Heaven's vestibule ! 

For I can hear, despite material warden 

And earthly locks, 
A still, small voice,— and know that through his garden 

The Father walks. 

The fragrant lips of dewy flowers that glisten 

Along the sward 
Are whispering to my spirit as I listen, 

" It is the Lord!" 

And forest monarchs tell by reverent gesture 

And solemn sigh 
That the veiled splendor of his awful vesture 

Is passing by. 

The billows witness Him. No more they darkle, 

But leap to lave 
The silent marching feet that leave a sparkle 

Along the wave. 



49 



And sweet aromas, fresher and intenser, 

The gales refine ; 
The odor floating from the lily's censer 

Is breath divine. 

Nature, Heaven's priestess, yieldeth precious witness 

And large reply, 
To him who comes to her with inward fitness 

Of harmony. 

Who seeks her door with calm interrogation, 

And reverent knock, 
With motive pure, and chaste communication, 

She will not mock, 

But open wide her penetralia portal, 

And bid her guest 
Drink from the precious streams of truth immortal 

That vein her breast. 



50 



STANZA X. 
From Broken Cadences. 

Jeremiah E. Rankin. 

Ye clouds that float in air 

.Above the farmer's labors, 
Dappling the meadows soft and fair, 

Ye are my neighbors ; 
And ye bear 
The semblance of my being there, 

For I, like you, 
Am but God's breath, 

Floating across the blue 
From birth to death. 
1 Ye seen you white as Alpine snows. 
To his repose, 

As by the angels in a long relay, 

I 've seen the sun by you, like Nebo's prophet, 
borne away, 

And then have turned aside to pray. 

Again, ye were to Heaven a Bethel way ; 
Some angel-trodden stair 
Let down mid-way in air 

Along the golden aisles of the departing day, — 
A dream surpassing sweet 
A wearied human soul to greet, 

Alone, 

Head pillowed on a stone. 



5' 



THE TEACHER'S SUMMER. 

Emily Greene Wetherbee. 

The books are closed, the children all have vanished; 

The city seems far off, unreal, and dim, 
As in this dear old town, all trouble banished, 

Sweet Nature sings her low, perpetual hymn. 

The clover blooms ; the roadside lined with daisies 
Sends up its sweetest fragrance as I pass ; 

While barefoot boys now thread the woodland's mazes, 
Or chase the butterflies through tangled grass. 

The shining scythe swings blithely in the meadow ; 

Brown little maidens gather berries sweet ; 
The cattle seek the elms for cooling shadow, 

Or in the river stand with grateful feet. 

The little brooks down from the hills come flashing 
Like threads of silver in the sunlight fair ; 

They dance and sing, through forest woods now dashing, 
Breathing soft music on the summer air. 

From mountains tall the purple haze is lifting ; 

The church spire throws its shadow on the green ; 
Through heavens of blue the fleecy clouds are drifting, 

And all is decked in summer's brightest sheen. 



52 



I know these clays of peace will soon be over, 

But they'll bring strength for duties yet to come, 

When from the sea, and fields of scented clover 
The ruddy children all come trooping home ; 

When leaves long closed are turned by listless fingers, 
And restless eyes look on the printed book, 

While in the heart the memory still lingers 

Of bees, and birds, and squirrel-haunted nook. 

Dear boys and girls, we must not be a-weary, 
And turn away, and sigh for pleasure sweet, 

And think this busy world is dark and dreary 
Because vacations pass with flying feet. 

We'll put into these same dull, tiresome pages 
The music of the woods, the sea, the air, 

And on these musty records of past ages 

We'll throw the brightness of the sunshine fair; 

And when we sigh for scenes of rustic beauty, 
And with impatient spirit chafe at rule, 

Try cheerfully to tread the path of duty, 

And in our own hearts we will first "keep school." 



53 



THE PEPPERMINT. 
Mentha Piperita. 

Laura A. Rice. 

She is wrapped in fragrant garments ; 

Close by the stream she stands, 
And from the lap of summer 

She takes with unseen hands 
The gifts so freely given, — 

This meadow simpler small, — 
Distilling them by the brookside 

In healing draughts for all. 

Wild witch of the flowery meadow ! 

She looks down on the stream, 
And in its magic mirror 

She sees, as in a dream, 
The wondrous arts of witchcraft 

By which to make her brew 
From the gold of quivering sunbeams, 

And liquid silver dew. 

The sun drops golden powder, 
She takes it quick, unseen, — 

This humble little Mentha 

Wrapped in her garments green, — 

54 



And she mixes it so deftly 

With fragrant balms concealed, 

And with crystals thrown by rain sprites 
To flower folk of the field ! 

Deep in the dark earth hidden, 

We see not the retort 
In which she brews elixir 

By the magic nature taught ; 
But her garments hold the perfume 

Escaped from her secret still ; 
Thus we trace her in the meadow 

At work beside the rill. 



55 



WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

L. E. Chellis Story. 

All day long the baby boy 

Had hurried up and down, 
Had chased the bees and butterflies, 

And caught the crickets brown ; 
And now the tired little man 

Lay snugly tucked in bed, 
When suddenly a cry arose 

That filled his heart with dread,— 
" Whip-poor-will ! 
" Whip-poor-will I' 1 

Who was it talking there so loud 

Of whipping little Will ? 
It seemed the voice were coming in 

From out the hedgerow still. 
And now he thought it louder grew 

And came to him so fast 
That little Will called out in fright 

For mamma as she passed. 
" Whip-poor-will ! 
" Whip-poor-will !" 

" That voice is but an evening bird 
That sings about the lawn." 

" O mamma, will it whip me sure 
Because the nest is gone ? " 



56 



Alas for naughty little Will 

Who stole the sparrow's nest 
Alas for deeds that echo long 
In hearts that never rest ! 
" Whip-poor-will ! 
"Whip-poor-will !" 



57 



MY ORIOLES. 

Latira Garland Can: 

Look just beyond the low, red gate 
That opens to the meadow field ! 

See that tall elm, so firm and straight, 

Its rough, brown trunk by vines concealed ; 

Its drooping branches toss and sway 

Each time a zephyr moves that way. 

Oh, such a dainty wild-bird's nest 
Is hidden in that mass of green ! 

I watched its building while at rest 
Within the shade, myself unseen ; 

Or, if they saw, they showed no fear ; 

Perhaps they knew a friend was near. 

It took them long to choose a place. 

They went and came a hundred times, 
Flashing their gold before my face, 

And talking on in droll bird rhymes. 
I almost knew what 'twas about, 
So round and full each word came out. 

And when, at last, work was begun, — 

Oh, such a busy, jolly pair ! 
They both seemed running o'er with fun, 

And filled with songs the summer air; 
Not long, clear trills, but bursts of glee 
That bubbled up and would go free. 

58 



With bills half full of sticks and strings 
I've seen them try to keep the song, — 

Oh, little harlequins with wings! — 
And drop the music all along. 

They cracked their jokes and laughed, I know, 

At us, poor plodders, here below. 

Oh, what a gallant husband he, 

When duties would not let her roam ! 

He gaily searched each bush and tree 
For dainty bits to carry home. 

And all bird-gossip he could win 

He brought, with comments well mixed in. 

No wandering bird dared come a-near, 

So fiercely would it be assailed, 
And did a cat or dog appear, 

With angry threatenings it was hailed. 
Not e 1 en a chicken dared to stray 
Where that tree's shadow stretched away. 

They're quiet now, — my little birds, — 
And scarcely sing one song a day. 

They've found that life is deeds, not words, 
And work leaves little time for play. 

But spring will come once more and then 

I know they'll find their songs again. 



59 



SPREADING HAY. 
Nathan F. Carter. 

Up, boys, up ! 
All the stars have gone to rest 
On the morning's rosy breast, 
And the smiling sun is up, 
Kissing every buttercup, 
Making fields of clover blush 
In its golden-tinted flush ; 
Lo ! it waits to welcome you, 
Making foot-prints in the dew. 

Up, boys, up ! 

Out, boys, out ! 
Out and breathe the morning air ; 
Scent the balm that lingers there ; 
Lo ! the mowers keen blades wield 
In yon fragrant clover field. 
See the blooming swaths laid low 
Where they haste to come and go. 
With a footstep light and gay, 
Thither take your willing way. 

Out, boys, out ! 

Work, boys, work ! 
With a heart that duty knows 
Follow through the long, straight rows, 
And with merry laugh and shout 
Shake the sparkling dewdrops out ; 

60 



Toss it lightly all around, 
Spread it smoothly o'er the ground ; 
In the winter time of need 
Mouths well-filled shall bless the deed. 
Work, boys, work ! 

Come, boys, come ! 
Make the wet locks briskly fly ; 
With each other stoutly vie. 
Lo ! the work has many charms, 
Health and strength for nimble arms, 
Berries woo a moment's rest, 
Sweets from grass-hid cells are pressed, 
Cooling waters bubble near. 
Toil gives noon a hearty cheer. 

Quick, boys, quick ! 

Well, boys, well! 
Pleasant work this spreading hay 
On a sunny summer day. 
As I watch you at your toil, 
Far from city strife and broil, 
Thought goes back to other days 
When I knew your sport and praise, 
And I wish full often then 
I were a farmer's boy again ! 

Rest, boys, rest ! 



61 



DAISIES AND CLOVER. 

Abby Hutchinson Patton. 

Oh, welcome me home, my dear daisies and clover, 

Give greeting to me ; 
Lift up your sweet heads, and welcome your lover 

From over the sea. 

I love your dear faces, my daisies, my clover; 

My long sorrows flee, 
As near you in mist of the morning I hover, 

Just home from the sea. 

My pure, honest daisies, my honey-bee clover. 

No welcome can be 
More sweet or more warm to a world-weary rover 

Than that you give me. 

When I am sleeping, dear daisies and clover, 

Will you bend over me, 
And say you are glad the long journey is over, 

The voyager free? 

My own starry daisies, my pink and white clover, 

Oh, will you not know 
The long-wearied heart which your fresh blossoms cover 

Is resting below? 

62 



Then welcome me, daisies and dew-dripping clover, 

As I bend low the knee ; 
I am sure you must know that your old-fashioned lover 

Is home from the sea. 



63 



ON LAKE WINNIPESAUKEE. 

Mary H. Wheeler. 

My boat here is waiting; come, friend, from the shore, 
And sit down beside me with hand to the oar; 

One dip and the frail tie we sunder. 
The land is behind us, the full moon before, 

And the water, clear water, hereunder; 
Away to the eastward where soft to the sand 

The lightly moved flood is inclining, 
See, on the bright level that rolls to the strand 

How like liquid gold is its shining ! 

We pass near the point overshadowed by trees, 
And catch the low sound of a night-roving breeze 

Through the boughs of the somber pines creeping, — 
A soft measured murmer that swells by degrees 

Like the voice of a child that, while sleeping, 
In sweet, dreamy accents repeats an old rhyme 

The cadence and rhythm unbroken, 
Though measures of silence recur in the time, 

And the words are half dreamed and half spoken. 

Now far on the level serenely we float ; 

Yon cloud near the moon moves along like our boat, 

From star on to star lightly gliding, 
As this on the water, a shadow, a mote, 

From island to island is riding. 

64 



In moonlight like this all the solid earth seems 

A far-away something unreal, 
Our cares and ambitions but troublesome dreams, 

And life itself wholly ideal. 

Sometimes, it is said, on a calm summer night 
A boat is seen gliding away there to right, 

A boat with a sail like a vapor, 
With nothing on board but a twinkling light 

Like a star or a flickering taper. 
It comes but at midnight, and only, they say, 

When moonlight is pale on the water, 
Sailing out from the lowlands above yonder bay, 

And seeking this southerly quarter. 

They speak of it softly, as something to fear, 
Presaging disaster about to appear, 

And say it is freighted with sorrow ; 
That the shade of Chocorua, hovering near, 

Will laugh at his foes on the morrow. 
But if the brave red man were sailing to-night 

His white foes would all be forgiven, 
For how could he harbor dark hatred in sight 

Of this water and moon-lighted heaven ! 



66 



THE INDIAN. 

Moody Currier. 

He stood on the hill where his fathers had stood, 
And gazed on the plains, the fields and the wood ; 
But the smoke of the wigwam had faded in air, 
And the shout of the warrior no longer was there. 

The forests were gone, and the wild deer had fled ; 
The mounds were upturned that had covered the dead ; 
The stream and the lake still rose to his view, 
Where the sport of his youth was the light bark canoe, 

But the track of the white man was seen on the shore, 
In the field was his plough, in the stream was his oar; 
And the flocks of the farmer were cropping their food 
Where the bark-covered hut of the warrior had stood. 

Then, the last of the red men, he hastened away 
From the graves where the bones of his forefathers lay, 
To the grass-covered plains of the far distant west, 
There alone in the desert unhonored to rest. 



67 



COW BELLS. 

Frederick Myron Colby. 

The low, green vales are veiled in mist ; 

The sunset skies are fire and gold ; 
The wooded hills cast shadows dark 

O'er gleaming waters still and cold. 
There is a hush o'er wastes and fields, 

O'er meadows lush and sheltered dells. 
Broken anon by wild, sweet chimes 

And fairy notes from tinkling bells. 

From out the leafy forests wide, 

Up from the vales and down the hills, 
From sedgy pastures, dank and green 

Watered by winding brooks and rills, 
There swells and sinks upon the air 

The soft, low tinkle of the bells, 
As wend the herds their homeward way 

Across the dusky leas and fells. 

Where tall ferns in the shadows grow, 
And the balsamic breath of pine 

Perfumes the hidden pasture nooks 
Where fairy cascades leap and shine ; 

6S 



From many a cool and shaded spot 

Where summer's noontide silence dwells. 

The docile kine come wandering slow 
To the vibrant tinkle of their bells. 



*V. rt 



siW 



" Where summer's noontide silence dwells." 

How floats the low, sweet music by 

Up to the dusty country way, 
When fades the sunset's golden glow, 

And dusky twilight ends the day ! 
It summons up the dreams of years, — 

The tinkle of those drowsy bells, — 
As barefoot boys drive up the cows 

From emVald glades and dark'nins dells. 



69 



Away from country sights and sounds,- 

Amid the city's din and roar, 
The flashing rills and summery meads 

Once more appear through opened door, 




" The flashing rills.' 1 '' 

And as I gaze with straining eyes 
Down forest glens and bosky fells 

I catch again on list'ning ear 

The music of those tinkling bells. 



70 



DAY-LILIES. 

Harriet McEwen Kimball. 

O summer day, 
Delay ! delay ! 
One waving of thy brooding wing, 
One stirring of thy hazy wing, 

And noontide light and heat 
Will find my dewy shadow-lair, 

And burn the coolness from the grasses 

That swathe my feet 

In rank and billowy masses : 
And to this claustral twilight bring 
The sun's profanest glare. 

O summer day, 
Delay ! delay ! 
Let naked hill and bare brown field 

Parch in thy torrid ray, 
So this dim nook be unrevealed, 

Where I, 
Deliciously concealed, 

Among the lilies lie. 
The delicate day-lilies! 
The white and wonderful lilies ! 
My dark green haunt so still is 
The wildest birdling dare not sing, 
Nor insect beat a gossamer wing, 



7i 



Nor zephyr lift the lightest thing, 

Here, where the lustrous lilies, 

The clear, resplendent lilies, 
Pour out their heavenly-sweet perfume, 

And with their snowiness, 
In clusters chaste, illume 

This dusk recess. 

Soft-footed Silence, royal nun ! 

In this thy humid, emerald cell 

Forever dwell ! 
These flowers supernal ever shine 
Pure-flamed, before thy virgin shrine ! 
Here, one by one, 

Tell o'er thy glistering, roral beads, — 

A rosary strung on tangled weeds 

And blades and stems that intertwist. 
The breath of lilies be thy prayers, 
Sweet-odored, wafted unawares 
Up through the morning's lucent airs 

And evening's pallid mist ! 
The glittering stars shall o'er thee pass, 
Deep-pillowed in the heavy grass ; 

These broad, smooth lily-leaves shall be 

A glossy coverlet for thee, 

Thy prayers and penance done 
O royal nun ! 

By day or night, 

In dark or light, 



72 



Thy fragrant shrine shall be the same ; 
These slender tapers lambent still, 
Nor blazing sun, nor mildew chill, 

Shall quench their alabaster flame. 

A gleam, as of a crystal wand ! 

And day peers in with curious face ; 
The jealous sunshine, stealing round, 

Doth warily chase 
The cool, dank shadows on the ground; 
The cloister walls no longer stand ; 

A garish glory fills the space, 
And lights the lush grass, loose and long ; 
And startled by the wild bird's song, 

Soft-footed Silence flees apace ; 
But still serene the lilies shine, 
Pure-flamed, before her ruined shrine ! 



73 



THE SPIRIT OF THE WOODS. 

Carrie White Osgood. 

Spirit! haunting tlie.se still shades, 
From strife and tumult swift to flee, 
Let one who loves and seeks, like thee, 

The flower-strewn dells, the ferny glades, 
The winding walks of woodland feet, 
Find welcome to thy dear retreat. 

From the loud world I slip away, 

From narrow walls and barren street ; 
After the burden and the heat, 

While in thy realm of peace I stray, 
Like emerald caves beneath the sea 
The cool, green silence seems to me. 

Under wide branches, spreading low, 
Here on the fragrant moss I kneel, 
Bend to its dewy cups, and feel 

Rivers of greenness round me flow ; 
My heart in the deep stream I lay 
And all its grime is washed away. 

1 waken, as from sleep, to hear 

The thousand voices of the wood, 
And, sounding through the solitude. 
Their mingled cadence, low and clear, 
Each leaf a joy-note in the score 
Written the rugged branches o'er. 



74 



No need of birds to lead the song 
With harmonies of wing and throat ; 
They sing in sunlit fields remote, 

Or on the highways, to the throng 
Who will not pause from toil or greed 
The message of the woods to heed. 

O Spirit ! linger at my side, 

Teach me the woodland wisdom — where 
Shy twin-flower climbs her rocky stair. 

What compass is the wild bee's guide, 
And how the slender ferns unroll 
The mystic scripture of their scroll. 

And still a deeper secret show — 

The throbbing pulse of flower and tree, 
The fine and wondrous sympathy 

That taught the lonely thrush to know 
And blend with his enchanting strain 
The tones of human grief and pain. 

Spirit of gentleness and cheer ! 

As from thy presence I depart 

Lay thy pure peace upon my heart, 
That I may feel its comfort near 

When, faint, along the heated way 

I bear the burden of the day. 



75 



WATER LILIES. 

Clara B. Heath. 

O regal roses, so bright and fair! 
Filling with fragrance the balmy air, 
Glowing in beauty on every hand, 
Sweeter than dreams of a fairyland ; 
'Tis well to come when the year is new, 
In its freshest green and its brightest blue. 

In early spring 'twas the violet 

We searched for in woods and meadows wet ; 

Arbutus, too, with its pink and white, 

Was ever a source of new delight ; 

While the purple pansies the gardens brought, 

Were sweeter than all, we sometimes thought. 

But the heart of the summer brings a glow 
No other time in the year can know. 
We seek the lake, and the little boat. 
And over the waters dreaming float 
To gather the lilies, starry-eyed, 
That rest on the shining, lapsing tide. 

What is as fair of all flowers that bloom ? 
What is as rare, with its rare perfume? 
What is as pure, with its home of waves? 
What is as fresh that the sunbeam laves ? 
Perfect in grace and in loveliness ! 
What is as dainty and sweet as this? 

76 



How spotless the pearly leaves that fold 
O'er the hidden and perfumed heart of gold ! 
Like fairy castles they seem to float 
From the shocks and sins of life remote ; 
Anchored, though wind and wave go by, 
With an upward look at the azure sky. 

The brightest morn that my childhood knew 
Was one on the waves so dark and blue. 
How rich I was, and how gay and glad, 
Though the gold of the lilies was all I had ! 
We've gathered little by life's highway 
As pure as the treasures of that fair day. 

Sweet water lilies of white and gold, 
That spring from a bed so dark and cold, 
With never a taint of their lowly birth, 
And never a touch of their mother earth, — 
The heart of the summer would still have shone 
Though never another flower had blown ! 



77 



CONTOOCOOK RIVER. 

Edna Dean Proctor. 

Of all the streams that seek the sea 

By mountain pass or sunny lea, 

Now where is one that dares to vie 

With clear Contoocook, swift and shy? 

Monadnock's child, of snow-drifts born, 

The snows of many a winter morn, 

And many a midnight, dark and still, 

Heaped higher, whiter, day by day 

To melt, at last, with suns of May, 

And steal, in tiny fall and rill, 

Down the long slopes of granite gray ; 

Or filter slow through seam and cleft 

When frost and storm the rock have reft, 

To bubble cool in sheltered springs 

Where the lone red-bird dips his wings, 

And the tired fox that gains their brink 

Stoops, safe from hound and horn, to drink. 

And rills and springs, grown broad and deep, 

Unite through gorge and glen to sweep 

In roaring brooks that turn and take 

The over-floods of pool and lake, 

Till, to the fields the hills deliver 

Contoocook's bright and brimming river ! 

O have you seen from Hillsboro 1 town 
How fast its tide goes hurrying down, 
With rapids now, and now a leap 

78 



Past giant boulders, black and steep, 
Plunged in mid water, fain to keep 
Its current from the meadows green ? 
But, flecked with foam, it speeds along; 
And not the birch-tree's silvery sheen, 
Nor the soft lull of murmuring pines, 



\S^ 




" The birch-tree's silvery sheen" 

Nor hermit thrushes, fluting low, 
Nor ferns, nor cardinal flowers that glow 
Where clematis, the fairy, twines, 
Nor bowery islands where the breeze 
Forever whispers to the trees, 
Can stay its course, or still its song ; 
Ceaseless it flows till round its bed 
The vales of Henniker are spread, 



79 



Their banks all set with golden grain. 

Or stately trees whose vistas gleam — 

A double forest— in the stream ; 

And winding 'neath the pine-crowned hill 

That overhangs the village plain, 

By sunny reaches, broad and still, 

It nears the bridge that spans its tide, — 

The bridge whose arches low and wide 

It ripples through, — and should you lean 

A moment there, no lovelier scene 

On England's Wye, or Scotland's Tay, 

Would charm your gaze, a summer's clay. 

O of what beauty 't is the giver, — 

Contoocook's bright and brimming river! 

And on it glides, by grove and glen, 
Dark woodlands, and the homes of men, 
With calm and meadow, fall and mill ; 
Till, deep and clear, its waters fill 
The channels round that gem of isles 
Sacred to captive's woes and wiles, 
And eager half, half eddying back, 
Blend with the lordly Merrimack ; 
And Merrimack, whose tide is strong, 
Rolls gently, with its waves, along 
Monadnock's stream that, coy and fair, 
Has come its larger life to share, 
And to the sea doth safe deliver 
Contoocook's bright and brimmins: river. 



A HAMMOCK SONG. 

Mary H. Wheeler. 

Lightly, swing lightly, for high in the tree 

A robin is feeding her young, 
And this is her dwelling. She quarreled with me 

That day when the hammock was hung. 
But now we are friends, and all through the hot weather, 
One high, and one low, we have swung here together. 

The roof of our lodge is a fresco in green, 

With a lace-work of light over-wrought, 
And the summer-sweet breezes are wafted between 

As viewless, as silent as thought, 
While fancies like butterflies dance to and fro 
To the music of bees in the clover below. 

Ah, robin, your birds are outgrowing their nest, 

Their wings are all feathered to fly, 
And the dreams I have nourished in these weeks of rest 

Are trembling their pinions to try. 
Our broods will take wing, and the summer will wane ; 
Shall we come to the nest and the hammock again ? 



82 



MY GARDEN. 

Frank M. Frisselle. 

In my garden are roses so velvety soft 

That they drop with the fluttering breeze, 
So fragrantly sweet that the senses are fraught 

With the odor of tropical seas. 
The hollyhock bends with its powdery blooms, 

And yellow is the marigold's head, 
The bumblebee kisses the dear marguerite, 

And dew to the pansy is fed. 

But naught in my garden more beautiful seems 
Than the girl with the silken hair, 

Who lingers along by the violet bank 

■ And praises the flowers there. 

Sweeter than roses and hollyhock blooms, 
And pansies and violets blue, 

Is the coy little maiden who gathers the buds 
Whose heart is so tenderly true. 



83 



AUGUST. 
Ceha Thaxter. 

Buttercup nodded and said good-by, 

Clover and daisy went off together, 
But the fragrant water-lilies lie 

Yet moored in the golden August weather. 

The swallows chatter about their flight, 
The cricket chirps like a rare good fellow, 

The asters twinkle in clusters bright, 

While the corn grows ripe and the apples mellow. 



84 



BEFORE THE RAIN. 
Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

We knew it would rain, for all the morn 
A spirit on slender ropes of mist 

Was lowering its golden buckets down 
Into the vapory amethyst 

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens — 
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, 

Dipping the jewels out of the sea, 

To scatter them over the land in showers. 

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed 
The white of their leaves, the amber grain 

Shrunk in the wind — and the lightning now 
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain ! 



85 



IN A FOG. 

Caroline E. Whiton-Stone. 

Sweet captive day, haste, and thy fetters break. 
The silken meshes that entangle thee 
Are woven so thin that I can almost see 

The golden sun its glittering tresses shake 

Adown the eastern sky ; but strong winds take 
Thy gossamer shroud, and, at the sea's decree, 
Wind it more closely lest thou struggle free. 

Haste ! wilt as prisoner let the noon o'ertake? 

Not so, not so — thou hast escaped. Behold, 

Thou hast usurped the blue, the heavens ridden o'er 

Outstripped the east wind and the clouds unrolled, 
Wrung from the salt-breathed sea the film it wore, 

Gauged the sun's eminence, proven its gold, 
And given to August one divine day more. 



,x<, 



SALTING THE CATTLE. 

Laura Garland Carr. 

"John ! John !" I cried, for I espied the rover. 

" Where are you going, John? May I go, too? ' 
Your voice came faintly up across the clover, — 

" To salt the cattle. Yes." Away I flew 

Down the dark lane, beneath the drooping larches, 
You waiting for me just beyond the corn, 

That opened in long lengths of gleaming arches, 
And led me out into the dewy morn. 

Then we sped on. Did our feet touch the grasses? 

Or did we glide, as sometimes comes in dreams, 
Without a motion save the thought that passes, 

And wills us onward over fields and streams? 

Cloud-shadows swept above the level spaces ; 

We sought to reach them racing down the lea ; 
Then turned aside to dark, green, mossy places, 

Hunting for " bear 1 s-wheat " that we linked in glee. 

A brook's loud brawl called to us from the valley, 
Telling of falls, and pools where minnows sleep ; 

And fragrant spruce trees wooed us long to dally 
With hoards of spicy gums packed close and deep. 

87 



A'ledge, high up, flashed out a sign of treasure 
That lured us upward from the ferny glen ; 

We had not learned all pleasing things to measure, 
And mica was as rich as silver then. 




"A brook's loud brawl called to us from the valley." 

We tried to find the thrush that sang below us. 

He led us through wild mazes in his flight; 
But oh ! what wonders did the woodland show us, 

While shy, small creatures scurried from our sight. 

We went so deep the outer world was banished, 
Then shut our eyes and twirled around and 'round, 

Till every trace of path and home had vanished, 
And we were lost in that enchanted ground. 



No hint from sun or pointing shadow heeding. 
We went the way we found our faces set, 

Which led us out to where the herd was feeding, 
And brought to mind our task, neglected yet. 

When, at your call, the cattle all came lowing, 
You laughed aloud to see my look of fright, 

And pointed where, fearless of their pursuing, 
I looked down safely from a boulder's height. 

I watched the fearful mass of horned creatures 
Surging about the base of my retreat, 

And marveled at you, as with tranquil features 

You dropped the salt close at their trampling feet. 

The sun had slipped behind the mountain fringes 
Before we started on our homeward way, 

And western skies were bright with sunset tinges. 
Ah ! our short task had filled the summer day ! 



89 



THE RUBY-THROATED HUMMING-BIRD. 

Adelaide George Bennett. 
I. 

Where Uncanoonucs 1 dreamy shadows lay, 
One fair midsummer when the noon was high, 
I watched the flocks of fleecy cumuli 

Like unsheared lambkins rollicking at play 

O'er the vast steeps of heaven's aerial way, 
Rolling and tumbling round the arching sky; 
Nor did the sun, their watchful shepherd, try 

To gather them or check their frolic gay. 

Below, the world lay wrapped in dreamy sleep — 
In subtle webs of languor and of heat. 

All animated nature did but creep, 

And its great heart but faintly, slowly beat, 

Weakly responsive to the listless sweep 
Of pulsing life with languid sense replete. 



90 



II. 

With sudden dash and rapid whir of wing, 

There flew, swift through the drowsy atmosphere, 
Bright as a star, though all the sky was clear, 

The sweetest, rarest little feathered thing 

That e'er from fairy bowers went truanting. 
Beneath its throat a blazing jewel queer, 
Like elfin torchlight, glimmered far and near— 

Or a live sun-coal Ariel might bring. 

A moment flashed this feathered jewel bright 

While lightened seemed the thick, heat-burdened air 

And flowers shed their sweets in coy delight. 
The world, for one brief instant, grew more fair 

As this bright vision burst upon the sight, 

Then lapsed to dullness, since it was not there. 



9i 



THE SUMMER OUTING. 

Annie D. G. Robinson. 

Where shall we pitch our gypsy tent, 
Our few brief days by pleasure lent ? 
Among the hills, beside the sea, 
Beneath some hillside pasture tree, 
Or 'mid the fields with daisies fair? 
Oh, choose at will, it matters not ; 
The loveliest spot, 
In summer days, is — everywhere! 

Dark pines in rifted ledges gray, 

Wild roses wet with salt sea spray, 

Pink sunsets in the mirroring lake, 

The wild brook laughing in the brake, 

The gray gull's flight, the clear-voiced thrush 

Sweet singing in the greenwood's hush, — 

Which joy to snatch, what bliss to lose, 

When each seems fairest, who can choose? 

Then gypsy-tenting forth we'll fare ; 

But whither go, it matters not ; 

The loveliest spot 

In summer days, waits — everywhere! 



92 



A PICTURE. 

Clara B. Heath. 

A barren isle,— white drifts of shelly sand, 

As if storm-built by an upheaving sea ; 

A gentle breeze that like a fairy wand 

Upturned the scanty leaves on shrub and tree ; 

A few white sails far out beyond the strand ; 
The morning sunlight flashing far and free 

Across cool waves, that rose with gentle swell, 
" Broke into curves, and slowly sinking fell. 

Inland, a quaint and quiet olden town 
Lay by the shore, a mile or two away, 

Along its outskirts mansions old and brown, 

And winding roads that struggled towards the bay ; 

Beyond, a-sunny hill with wooded crown; 
O'er all the stillness of an August day. 

Along the rocks we saw the seaweed cling, 

Far out the glitter of a sea-gull's wing. 

A perfect picture for an artist eye, 

One that could catch the beauty of the hour ; 

The quivering light that flashed o'er earth and sky 
Turned every nook into a fairy bower; 

It touched the foam-wreaths as they floated by 
Transforming each into a regal dower 

Of blazing gems ; while eastward, sky and sea 

Were lost in one great wave of harmony. 

93 



THE ISLAND. 

Mary H. Wheeler. 

The heat had been intense the whole bright clay, 
And rushing northward on a crowded train 
I caught a view through dusty window-pane 
Of shining water, reaching far away, 
With cool, soft gleam beneath the last long ray 
Of setting sun. Beyond the silvery plain, 
In hazy distance, rose a mountain chain; 
But near at hand a mound-like island lay, 
Green, oh, so green ! with leafy trees and pines, 

And mossy rocks and steps to climb thereto, 
And rustic lodge half-hidden by the vines, 

Revealed by gleam of windows shining through. 
The island seemed from that cool lake to rise 
A glimpse of rest — a dream of paradise. 



94 




i Near at hand a mound-like island lay.' 



A FLURRY. 

Laura Garland Can . 

We leave the mountain wilds behind, 
Still with their mysteries oppressed. 

And ride through open lands to find 
Dark storm-clouds massing in the west. 

They hurry up the summer sky 

To glower down with threatenings dire ; 
On, on before, our good steeds fly, 

But far-off seems the home church spire. 

The flying swallows skim the ground ; 

The thunder growls in long, low peals ; 
And from the woods a rushing sound 

Blends with the clang of hoof and wheels. 

We clatter down the rough hillside ; 

We rumble through the darkening vale ; 
1 Neath sheltering trees the white flocks hide : 

The lone trees bow before the gale. 

The blinding dust-clouds whirl and twirl, 
And, mixed with dead leaves, fill the air ; 

Our wind-caught robes like sails unfurl, 
And spinning hats leave flying hair. 

96 



The shaking bridges creak and spring ; 

The jostled pebbles roll and skip ; 
We round the curve with sudden swing ; 

The first drops plash on cheek and lip. 

On, on ! Ah, here's the church once more, 
With its long, friendly open shed ! 

We dash beneath just as the roar 
Of pouring floods bursts overhead. 

From our retreat we watch the rain 
Down-rushing from the lonely church, 

And see the frantic weather-vane 
Turn wildly on its lofty perch. 

The thunder booms ; the lightnings cast 
A ghastly flicker o'er the scene ; 

The forests wrinkle 'neath the blast 
Like grassy fields of tender green. 

• 'Tis still again ! no wind ! no rain ! 
The fading clouds reveal the blue, 
And where the woodland meets the plain 
A rift of sunlight shimmers through. 

'Neath dripping trees, with sober pace, 
We spatter home at close of day, 

While Nature's shining, fresh-cleaned face 
Flashes new beauty all the way. 



97 



SONNET LXXXVII. 
From Intimations of Heaven. 

Horace Eaton Walker. 

Leave city walls and hie to rural vales ; 

Leave business cares and come across to me. 

The city is a dull satiety. 
But come and jump with me the old moss rails ! 
Let 's gad like boys through dusky intervales ! 

For here is Nature clothed in rarity, 

And here is Nature's amplest liberty. 
The wild-birds chorus with a thousand gales. 

And then you'll think of God ! For He alone 

Hath made the beechwood flower, the gadding vine 

In beauty's tangled nooks, and on the stone 
Placed mossy loveliness, while lavish wine 

From far ambrosial lands outsparkles red 

Where thousand vines have over-canopied. 



98 



FROM JOE ENGLISH HILL. 
Florence A. D. Atwood. 

There 's many a spot of hill and dale, 

Of valley and mountain height, 
Where mirrored surface of river and pond 

Shimmers in glad sunlight ; 
Where forests rear their crowns of green 

'Mid odors of spruce and pine 
And the carpet of needles at their feet 

Is wreathed by a running vine ; 
Where in cosy nooks in the hillsides steep, 

And down in the quiet glen, 
Nestle homes that send out to the world 

Fair women and noble men. 
Away from the busy, crowded mart, 

Away from the city's din, 
They 've clearer glimpses in Nature of God, 

And less temptation to sin. 
They look to the hills from whence cometh strength. 

In freedom and health rejoice, 
Acknowledging God in the tempest's roar, 

In silence, the still, small voice. 

LofC. 

99 



THE SONG OF THE SEA. 

Emma A. Kimball. 

I sit within a shady nook 
And listen to the shallow brook- 
That slowly ripples by ; 
It faintly tinkles at my feet, 
A song with gladsome sounds replete. 

Nor breathes a pensive sigh. 
But I long, I long to hear the song 
Of the mighty waves which roll along 
The Atlantic shore ; — the awful crash 
Of breakers that foam, and roar, and dash. 
The song of the restless, heaving sea 
Is the grandest of all songs to me. 

I hear the whisper of the breeze 
That lightly through o'erarching trees 

Sends music soft and low ; 
I hear the joyous caroling 
Of birds that make the wildwood ring ; 

Their songs are sweet, I know ; 
But oh ! I long for the solemn song 
Of surging billows which break along 
The Atlantic shore ; — the thunder deep 
Of rock-met surges that wildly leap 
High into air. Oh, dear unto me 
Is the ceaseless moan of the rolling sea! 




3* 



w > 



SUNRISE ON SUNAPEE MOUNTAIN. 

George Bancroft Griffith. 

On this high knoll with bright moss cushioned o'er, 
Beside the whispering pines we, silent, stand, 

Just as the sun's rays gild the pebbled shore, 
And in a moment flood the smiling land. 

Fair Sunapee ! the virgin morn her eyes 

Did fix on thee in sweet and glad surprise 
When first she roved with golden lover here, 
A blue-eyed maid, and saw thy waters clear. 

She comes again, so rosy and serene! 

And silent night with cloudless brow retires ; 
Her fresh cheeks dimple as she views the scene, 

And Sol's uplifted torch each summit fires. 
The perfumed air o'er fields of ripening wheat, 
Unrippled yet by breeze that tempers heat. 

Is faintly blowing ; in their purple prime 

Up to our very feet wild asters climb. 

The goldenrod on every sunny slope 

Shows clustered coin to tempt the rambler's eye ; 
From wood-paths dark and cool the cattle grope 

To drink from crystal rill or lakeside nigh ; 
O'er fluttering birches float and fade away 
The steamer's smoke-wreaths, ghosts of yesterday ! 

The Mountain House in perfect quiet gleams, 

And fair Burkehaven is a land of dreams. 



io 3 



'Neath the soft azure all the headlands glow ; 

Unstirred as yet by paddle-wheel or oar, 
How smooth each little bay spreads out below ! 

And every island has delightful shore. 
Like amber velvet there the mosses cling, 
And the white clover where no scythe will swing ; 

Tall, swaying daisies fringe the clumps of fern, 

And star-flowers with increasing lustre burn. 

Now all the hills, calm sentinels of heaven, 
Croydon and Cardigan and famed Kearsarge, 

Their morning message to the gods have given, 
Borne upward in some cloudlet's silver barge. 

An answer flashes in reflected light 

From heaven's own door, and each majestic height, 
Each granite cliff, as in the ages past, 
Receives the watchword we may hear at last ! 

Bound evermore by some enchanter's spell 

Is thy domain, O glorious Sunapee ! 
Guardian of Loch Katrine we love so well, 

That laughing child whose face looks up to thee ! 
Uplands and meadows teem with forms of life 
Happy and free, afar from scenes of strife ; 

Locked in the mountain's arms the dear lake lies 

Fair as our dreams of angels' Paradise. 



104 



LAKE SUNAPEE. 
William Cant Sluroc. 

Once more, my muse, from rest of many a year 
Come forth again and sing, as oft of yore ; 

Now lead my steps to where the crags appear 
In silent grandeur by the rugged shore 

That skirts the margin of thy waters free, 

Lake of my mountain home, loved Sunapee ! 

Meet invocation to the pregnant scene, 

Where, long ere yet the white man's foot had come, 
Roamed wild and free the daring Algonquin, 

And where, perchance, the stately Metacom 
Inspired his braves with that poetic strain 
Which cheered the Wampanoags, but cheered in vain. 

Clear mountain mirror ! who can tell but thou 
Hast borne the red man in his light canoe 

As fleetly on thy bosom as e'en now 

Thou bearest the paleface o'er thy waters blue ; 

And who can tell but nature's children then 

Were rich and happy as the mass of men ? 

Sweet Granite Katrine of this mountain land ! 

Oh, jewel set amid a scene so fair ! 
Kearsarge, Ascutney, rise on either hand, 

While Grantham watches with a lover's care, 
And Sunapee to Croydon sends in glee 

A greeting o'er thy silvery breast, Lake Sunapee ! 



105 



How grand, upon a moonlit eve, to glide 
Upon thy waters, 'twixt the mountains high, 

And gaze within thy azure crystal tide 

On trembling shadows of the earth and sky, 

While all is silent save when trusty oar 

Awakes an echo from thy slumbering shore ! 

Ah ! where shall mortals holier ground espy 

From which to look where hope doth point the gaze 

Than from the spot that speaks a Deity 
In hoary accents of primeval praise? 

And where shall man a purer altar find 

From which to worship the Almighty mind? 

Roll on, sweet lake ! and if, perchance, thy form 
Laves less of earth than floods of western fame, 

Yet still we love thee in the calm or storm, 
And call thee ours by many a kindly name ; 

What patriot heart but loves the scenes that come 

O'er memory's sea, to breathe a tale of home? 

And when the winter in its frozen thrall 
Binds up thy locks in braids of icy wreath, 

Forget we not thy cherished name to call, 
In fitting shadow of the sleep of death ; 

But morn shall dawn upon our sleep, and we, 

As thou in springtime, wake, sweet Sunapee ! 



1 06 



WHEN STORMS AWAKE. 

Adelaide Cilley Waldron. 

Because with murmurings that swell and grow 
To harmonies immeasurable and fill 
The affrighted air, the sullen thunders thrill 

The vault of heaven and shake the earth below ; 

Because the hosts of flame make haste to throw 
From cloudy battlements their darts of ill, 
And every force tempestuous works its will, 

While winds their loud opposing trumpets blow ; 

Because my mortal flesh knows sympathy 
With nature in her strivings, and my ear 

Demurs at tumult vehement and free, 
Shall I take on the attitude of fear, 

And so abase the soul God gave to me, 
Or shall I stand erect His voice to hear? 



107 



PAN. 

Alice Brawn. 

Hark ! you may hear him stirring, 

More softly than the whirring 

Of filmy, hair-veined wings, 

Or thrill of echoing strings 

When the sad pine, with weaving minstrelsy, 

Mocks the imagined music of the sea. 

The fall of ebon hoof! 

Stand lightly by, aloof, 

And you may see him pass, 

Unwounding the lush grass, 

Dropping diffusive balm 

From honey breath and careless hollowed palm,- 

Known of the hawk, unnoted now of man, 

The great god Pan ! 

Where was he hiding 

When men, deriding 

The lisping lore of years when years were young, 

And song held some sweet measures yet unsung, 

Declared him dead, 

His great dominion fled, 

And nailed their rhymes above his mossy bier? 

Ah ! in the youth or age o 1 the year, 

In sunshine or in midnight murk, 

Still did the goat-god lurk 



1 08 



In the green forest glade, 

Of naught afraid 

But of the curious eye, 

Of ominous crash, and echo-frighting cry . 

" This way he ran ! 

Surely the one called Pan I 11 

In the deep wood ! 

The wood so deep that one scarce enters there 
With willing foot, but warm-left lair 
Of timorous beast is found, 
And o'er the hollow ground 
Faint, pattering paws of thrifty squirrels tread ; 
The sanctuary where spent winds are fled, 
And nuts lie stored 
Richer than Rhine-washed hoard ; 
Where every hollow tree hath honey cells ; 
Here where the wild dove dwells, 
And one secluded, choir-remembering thrush 
Strikes silvernly across the solemn hush 
Of the vast shadowy stillness, with his flute 
And cymbals, —and is mute ; 
Where the shy partridge rounds her nest, 
And by lone Silence blest, 
Teaches her young the sweet wood-lessoning 
Of hiding under leaf and flight on fluttering wing, 
There, on a day of all delight, 

Dropping through purpling reaches down to shoreless 
night, 

109 



Day sprung from some far, Titan-bosomed source, 
And leaving, in its course, 

The hills enriched, the valleys drowned with joy- 
Day for a god's employ — 
I saw him, I, 
Unworthily 

Spying upon him, creeping in the deep 
Removed courts, where Dian's self might sleep. 
Over my crawling flesh swift prescience ran : 
The living Pan ! 

His brow was crowned that day, 

Not with the myrtle and the bay, 

Or flower ambrosial sprung from storied fields, 

But all the woodland yields 

Of blessed homely leaf 

Garnered in Summer's sheaf 

Of joys. The wilding clematis 

Roved o'er his regnant front with rioting kiss ; 

The royal goldenrod 

There learned to nod, 

Entreating she might touch his tangled hair, 

And so transmute herself to fairest fair ; 

Great lilies lustred o'er the living crown ; 

And trailing down 

His mighty sides, the dull hop-vine 

Did with her dreaming mates entwine. 

Upon one shaggy knee 

He handled tenderly 



A youngling fox, whose mother stood thereby, 

Watching with worshipful and drowsy eye 

The laughing god and laughing little one, 

Both children of the sun, 

Loved of the wind, 

And understood by all four-footed kind. 

Ah ! who but one reed-piping in the wood might now 

Sing of the god himself, his music-haunted brow, 

His cheeks, like autumn hillocks, overspread 

With bloom of russet red 

Richer than wine spilled o'er young maple tips? 

His glowing lips 

For generous laughter curved ; the all-compelling eye 

Where buried sunlit sands discovered lie — 



But hush ! ah, hush ! lay listening ear 

To earth ! Dost thou not hear 

His rhythmic tread? The gladdened air 

Drips with the wood-scent from his tossing hair ; 

The very cloud 

Trails lower ; and the oriole's loud 

Bright plaint is piercing, unsubdued, 

The lattice of her leaf-wrought solitude ; 

The robin blither sings, 

The blindworm dreams of wings. 

Lower ! bow down ! abase thy trivial state, O man ! 

He comes, the earth-god, Pan! 



TO THE WILD AMMONOOSUC. 

Oliver S. Rice. 

river, river ! I have come 
O'er plain and mountain height 

Alas ! to find thee silent, dumb, 
And hidden half from sight. 

Thy white rocks, smooth as organ keys, 

Are bleaching in the sun ; 
The murmur from the forest trees 

Tells that thy song is done. 

And here I stand within thy home 
And note some bird or flower! 

No trembling tree, no wreath of foam, 
Tells of thy silent power. 

1 bend and wait to catch the sound 

From where thy waters shine 
Which might reveal, thou captive bound, 
That hidden strength of thine. 

O river, rise and sweep those keys, 

And let thy wild arms fling 
The glory of the winds and seas 

To mountains echoing ! 



The friendless night has heard thy song, 
The mountain cliff, and plain ; 

But, O my river ! how I long 
To hear thy voice again ! 

The years are many since we met, 

Wild river, dumb to-day ; 
Toss one salute, — I linger yet, — 

One dash of mountain spray ! 



WHITEFACE. 

Stephen Henry Thayer. 

Alpine in height, a towering form it lies 
Against the blue, colossal in the morn ; 
And haply now the foamy clouds, o'erborne, 

Shall veil its summit on the eastern skies ; 

And now the gentler airs shall whisper sighs, 
Or the imperious tempest-storm, forlorn, 
Whirl o'er its grim ravines and rock-ribs, shorn ; 

Yet, lo ! it stands immutable, defies 

The passion-throes of earth ! 

Symbol of power, 
It breasts the heavens ; and when the shadows fall, 

When vales are blurred in dusk, watching, I see 
A nimbus clinging, like a golden shower, 
■On its white brow. Even so, when truth shall pall 

On lesser souls, the great seem rapt and free ! 



114 



OLD HOME WEEK. 

Annie D. G. Robinson. 

Thrice fair the dear old state we love 

Among her green hills stands, 
And, like a waiting mother, smiles 

And reaches out her hands. 
" Come back, my wanderers ! 11 she calls ; 

" Come back ! we miss you yet ; 
New Hampshire hearts have never learned 

Their absent to forget ! 
Come back and break the bread of love 

And hear fond memory speak, 
And give to those who knew you first 

An Old Home Week ! 

" Come back and let us share with you 

Your triumphs or your tears ; 
Come back and see what toil has won 

For us these busy years. 
Let the closed by-roads, grass-o 1 ergrown, 

Again your footsteps know ; 
By the deserted farmhouse still 

Your mother's roses grow. 
Strew flowers on long-forgotten graves, 

List while hushed voices speak, 
And make a sacrament of love 

Our Old Home Week. 1 ' 



"5 



DEAR GRANITE HILLS, 

Adelaide George Bennett. 

Dear Granite Hills, with awe we view 
Your white peaks pierce the ether blue. 
Your grandeur lures our eager feet 
To climb where earth and heaven meet. 
Each morn your cloud-capped wonders woo 
The light celestial, shining through, 
To rest with benediction new 
Upon the lowland's calm retreat, 
Dear Granite Hills. 

Though far away, like magnets true 
You draw us ever unto you, 

Led on by memories fond and sweet. 

For you our hearts in yearning beat 
With love no change can e'er undo, 
Dear Granite Hills. 



116 



THE NINTH STAR. 

Allen E. Cross. 

Read at the Centennial Anniversary of the signing of the Federal 
Constitution by New Hampshire. 

" God bless New Hampshire ! from her granite peaks 
Once more the voice of Stark and Langdon speaks ;" 
So cried our martial bard in days of old, 
When, from the accursed chains of slavish gold, 
The spirit of our hills sprang proudly uncontrolled. 

God bless New Hampshire ! 'tis the common prayer 

That heavenward floats upon the loyal air 

Whenever courage crowns the Granite State, 

Or she for freedom holds the torch of fate, 

Or free New Hampshire hearts her valor celebrate. 

Such was the torch, brave state, that beaconed forth, 
When, from the crystal summits of the north, 
New Hampshire signalled back the fateful sign 
That made the stars upon thy banner nine, 
True Magna Charta of man's liberties divine ! 

" Congress had provided that when conventions in nine of the thirteen 
states should ratify the constitution it should become the fundamen- 
tal law of the republic. To New Hampshire, therefore, rightly be- 
longs the honor of securing the adoption of the constitution with all 
its attendant blessings." Benson J. Lossing. 

"7 



True Magna Charta of the brave and free ! 

Our Magna Charta it must ever be, 

Since from New Hampshire's sky the light was hurled 

That saved the Constitution to the world, 

And by her federal star the starry flag unfurled. 

Thence rose our free Republic, the ninth star 

Filling its perfect lustre, while afar 

From Maine to Carolina rang the cry, 

" God bless this brave New Hampshire," till God's sky 

Seemed proudlier on her ancient hills to lie. 

Hills of the Northland, be ye ever proud ! 

Crowning memorial peaks with whitest cloud ; 

New Hampshire's star hath flashed above your heights, 

Blent with its sister stars 1 embattled lights, 

And fought each Sisera for God and human rights. 

Lakes of New Hampshire, be ye calm and clear! 
Ye have mirrored many a storm but ne'er a fear ; 
Fold in your fair embrace our northern star ; 
Let no foul hand its fair reflection mar, 
Down dropt in your clear depths from Freedom's heaven 
afar. 

Sons of New Hampshire, hold ye, also, fast 

The light that blessed constitution cast ! 

Let no disloyal son its power deny 

From where the ocean meets the sands of Rye 

To where your crystal hills uplift the crystal sky. 

118 



Remember those who left this light to you ; 
Remember its " defender, 11 grand and true ; 
Clasp in your own great Langdon's generous hand ; 
Feel Starke strong pulse, and with McClary stand, 
Letting each loyal life your loyalty command. 

And now, true hearts, who love God's greater sky 

Of human rights and human liberty, 

Look upward to that heaven, then be true 

To the brave star upon your banner blue, 

And pray with me the grand old prayer so dear to you. 

Our Father, bless New Hampshire, keep her light 

In its fair sky of freedom clear and bright, 

Pure as a star should be, devoid of shame, 

True to her ancient heritage of fame, 

With grateful, loving hearts to guard her holy name. 



iro 



THE ROAD TO BOSTON. 

Sam Walter Foss. 

The little road goes past my house, goes winding like a 

snake, 
Climbs up the hills of hemlock, and winds through 

swamps of brake, 
It leaps the sweeping river and climbs the mountain 

height, 
Bends down into the valley, and goes glimmering out of 

sight. 

But there are travelers tell me that the little road grows 

wide, 
And leads through many villages down to the ocean side, 
And still keeps stretching onward — they have followed 

day by day — 
Until it reaches Boston town, two hundred miles away. 

And this little road, they tell me, grows to Boston's big- 
gest street, 

All lined by mighty houses tall — and some two hundred 
feet— 

Where monstrous crowds its sidewalks throng, like 
armies on parade ; 

Where all the people of the world come down to buy and 
trade. 



My boys and girls when they grew up, they felt the heavy 
load 

Of this quietude and dullness — and they traveled down 
the road, 

And they wound across the rivers, and far o'er the moun- 
tains gray 

To the biggest street in Boston, two hundred miles away. 

And many men among the hills hear Boston's distant 

roar, 
For the biggest street in Boston passes every farmhouse 

door, 
And the distant roar and rumble comes like magic to the 

ear, 
And thousands travel down the road, pass on, and 

disappear. 

But my boys they write from Boston that for feet that 

waded through 
The early fields of clover and the daisies and the dew 
The stones are hard and cruel there on Boston's biggest 

street 
And are pressed each day and hour by a horde of tired 

feet. 

And that men are cold and selfish, each one busy with 
his plan 

To climb to wealth and power o'er his prostrate fellow- 
man ; 



That the few have ease and comfort, and the many toil 

and die, 
Shut in by brick and granite from the sunlight and the 

sky. 

And I write my children letters ; tell them that their 

father still, 
Still is toiling by the roadside on the green and quiet 

hill, 
And to come away from Boston, with its cruel noise and 

roar, 
For the biggest street in Boston passes by their father's 

door! 




THE DESERTED FARMHOUSE. 

Mary M, Currier. 

It stands aloof from the common way 

Where the folks go up and down ; 
It keeps its pride and its dignity, 

Though its walls are stained and brown. 
Alone it stands with its hopeless grief, 

Deserted, decaying, old ; 
Around it the timid breezes play, 

And revel the storm-winds bold. 

The lilac bushes beside the wall 

Still bud and bloom as of yore, 
But the cherry trees heed not the spring, 

And they feed the bees no more. 
The well with its weather-beaten sweep 

Slumbers on from year to year; 
Unrippled its waters rest, save when 

Strays thither a leaflet sere. 

No fires are kindled within the house, 

No candle sends forth its gleam. 
But upon the western windows stili 

Falls the sun's departing beam ; 
And the small, half-shattered panes flame back 

With their old-time fiery red, 
A light to pilot returning ghosts 

That come when the day is dead. 



123 



FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER. 

Constance Fenimore Woolson. 

She journeyed north, she journeyed south, 

The whole bright land she wandered over, 
And climbed the mountains white with snow, 
And sought the plains where palm-trees grow, 
But — never found the four-leaved clover. 

Then to the seas she spread her sail, 

Fled round the world a white-winged rover; 

Her small foot pressed the Grecian grass, 

She saw Egyptian temples pass, 

But — never found the four-leaved clover. 

The costliest gems shone on her brow ; 

The ancient Belgian spinners wove her 
A robe of lace a queen might wear ; 
Her eyes found all most rich, most fair. 

But — never found the four-leaved clover. 

The throng did flock to see her pass, 

To hear her speak, and all men strove her 
Smile to win ; she had the whole 
Of each one's life and heart and soul, 
But — never found the four-leaved clover. 



124 



A sudden whirlwind came at last, 

A little tempest rose and drove her 
Homeward, bereft, alone, and poor, 
The fair friends fled, the journeyings o'er 

That never found the four-leaved clover ! 

"Alas!" she sighed, "all hope is gone; 

I Ve searched the wide world through ; moreover, 
My eyes are worn with toil ; they see 
But this small strip of grass' 1 — There free 

And strong it grew— the four-leaved clover! 



!2.5 



CHOCORUA. 

Caroline E. Whiton-Stone. 

Again with August fires thou beckonest me, 
Chocorua, and at thy feet divine, 
Where even gods might kneel as at a shrine, 

My soul is flooded with thy majesty. 

The sun has broken from the morning free, 
And with the golden dust of heaven ashine, 
The noonday vapors glittering 'round thee twine, 

And thou art wrapped in amber radiancy. 

And yet I saw thee once more tragic fair, 

When with the plaint of whippoorwills athrill 

The moon leaned over thee in white despair 
And spilled its silver agony, until 

Imperial thou stoodst with bosom bare 
And let its daggers stab thee at its will. 



126 



THE CRICKETS. 

Harriet McEwen Kimball. 

Pipe, little minstrels of the waning year, 

In gentle concert pipe ! 
Pipe the warm noons, the mellow harvest near, 
The apples dropping ripe ; 

The tempered sunshine and the softened shade. 

The trill of lonely bird, 
The sweet, sad hush on Nature's gladness laid, 

The sounds through silence heard ! 

Pipe tenderly the passing of the year, 

The summer's brief reprieve, 
The dry husk rustling 'round the yellow ear. 

The chill of dawn and eve ! 

Pipe the untroubled trouble of the year ; 

Pipe low the painless pain ; 
Pipe your unceasing melancholy cheer ; 

The year is in the wane! 



127 



SEPTEMBER. 
C. Jennie Swaine. 

The summer-tide has ebbed away 

Like waves that turn about 
When from the fullness of the seas 

The tide goes singing out ; 
And yet, born of the faded light 

Of her departed bloom, 
September's mellow days drift down 

Through rifts of golden gloom. 

The glory which shall be revealed 

In autumn's waning hours 
Broods now, a dark-winged prophecy, 

Above the dying flowers ; 
And yet this shadowy wing may give 

The hectic of the leaves, 
And paint the crimson laurel hills, 

And gild the harvest sheaves. 

Queen summer went so softly forth 

Her footsteps did not mar 
The gold-dust on the goldenrod, 

Or dim the aster's star. 
She wrapped her mantle as she passed 

Around September days, 
And o'er the sweet, belated flowers 

Her lingering sunlight plays. 

128 



Lift up, sweet month, the amber gate 

Where sunset glories shine ; 
Turn softly back the fluted door 

Where morns and eves entwine ; 
And lo, a radiance shall rest, 

A Tabor-light of old, 
Upon the oak's illumined crest 

And coronal of gold ! 



129 



THE SANDPIPER. 

Cell a Thaxter. 

Across the narrow beach we flit, 

One little sandpiper and I, 
And fast I gather, bit by bit, 

The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. 
The wild waves reach their hands for it, 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 
As up and down the beach we flit, — 

One little sandpiper and I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 

Scud black and swift across the sky ; 
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 

Stand out the white lighthouses high. 
Almost as far as eye can reach 

I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 
As fast we flit along the beach, 

One little sandpiper and I. 

I watch him as he skims along, 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. 
He starts not at my fitful song, 

Or flash of fluttering drapery. 
He has no thought of any wrong ; 

He scans me with a fearless eye. 
Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, 

The little sandpiper and I. 



Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night 

When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 
My driftwood fire will burn so bright ! 

To what warm shelter canst thou fly ? 
I do not fear for thee, though wroth 

The tempest rushes through the sky; 
For are we not God's children both, 

Thou, little sandpiper, and I? 



I .3 I 



THE WHITE HILLS. 

William Plumer. 

Thy varied scenes blend grace, my native land, 

With grandeur; here the tranquil lake, 

And there the roaring torrent, — streams that break 
Impetuous rushing, from thy mountain strand 
With headlong force that scoops the yielding sand 

And wears down granite. Lo ! where towering nigh. 
His shoulders mantled with yon swelling cloud 
Whence lightnings flash, and thunders roar aloud, 

Mount Washington ascends his native sky! 
Armed with the avalanche, he sweeps afar 
Man and his works, — his caverns stored with snow, 
Coeval with the rock. Like some lone star, 
Above the storm, he looks on earth below, 

Serene in silence from his throne on high. 



J 3- 



THE MOUNTAINS OF NORTH CONWAY. 

Arthur Locke. 

O mountains white ! O mountains gray ! 

Mountains in blue and green array ! 
Your lofty heights inspire my soul, 

And lift it upward to its goal. 

Your rugged summits boldly stand 
Like noble reefs by ocean's strand, 

Looking far out on life's wide sea, 
And pointing to eternity. 

They speak of lands of higher worth, 
Of homes more dear than these of earth, 

Where Christ on high in glory reigns 
As man and God in God's domains. 

O mountains glorious and free ! 

Prophets and priests of God are ye, 
Having a part in His vast plan 

To elevate the soul of man. 



133 



TO THE STONE FACE. 

John IV. Condon. 

Braving the javelins of the thunder-god, 
Through each succeeding century the same, 
Careless alike of good or evil fame, 
Permitting not thy lofty head to nod 
Whether the light or darkness kiss the sod, 
How well may fickle man be taught of thee 
The long, hard lesson of true constancy! 
The rugged paths the martyr's feet have trod 
Perhaps were smoother for that stoic will 
Which, buffeted by Fate, refused to yield, 
But met each fresh attack, and kept the field 
With head erect, and stayed to conquer still. 
So in this face of solid rock we find 
A silent tutor for the thoughtful mind. 



J 34 




THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 



THE OLD LOG TROUGH. 

C. Jennie Swaine. 

The rill oozed up from the soft, green moss 

With a gurgling, gleeful sound, 
And through field bouquets of daisies bright 

In sparkling labyrinths wound; 
Thirsty horses came thither to drink, 

And the robin dipped his wings 
In the water that dropped in the old log trough 

From the cooling upland springs. 

It held the nectar of forest glades, 

The magic of meadow dew, 
And the greenest of water-loving plants 

By the side of the old trough grew. 
The tufts of verdure in rocky chinks, 

And the violets hiding away, — 
I dream of them still, though the old log trough 

Has been gone for many a day. 

I think of the days when April showers 

Were coaxing the buds into bloom, 
And the rill was fed so bounteously 

That the log trough had not room 
For the sparkle and foam of the mimic flood 

As it struggled in wrath or play, 
And the trough in the log like a Nile o'erflowed, 

And rippled across the way. 

136 



Somehow, in those days of early spring 

I loved the old trough best ; 
But oftenest I seek it in my dreams 

When moonbeams upon it rest; 
The soft, low murmur of voices I hear, 

And the shadows of forms I see, — 
Listen : the voices are ours, and the forms 

Are the forms of you and me ! 

Oh, the summer Sabbaths, how sweet they were, 

When roses perfumed the air, 
As we slowly wound through the flower-fringed roads 

To the distant house of prayer ! 
The patient horses would wait their turns 

To drink from the old trough log, 
And, turning away, the driver and steeds 

Seemed content with their Sunday jog. 

Then came the chill of the autumn time 

When the leaves in the oaks hard by 
Floated down to us through the moonlight pale 

With a faint hint of a sigh, 
And life was so sweet we forgot the bees 

Had summer's last sweetness sipped, 
While the shrunken seams in the old log trough 

With a musical rhythm dripped. 

Oh, the beautiful days of winter's reign ! * 

I remember them, one and all, 



J 37 



With the frozen sparkles upon the stream, 
And the dull, old axe on the wall, 

Wherewith was opened the old log trough ; 
And the sound smote through the dells 

As we drew the horses in to drink 
With the playful tinkle of bells. 

The old log trough, grown green with moss, 

No more by the way appears ; 
It rotted away in its fern-fringed bed 

Brimful, as with sparkle of tears ; 
But its ghostly ruins an ivy gave, 

And its tendrils to-night entwine 
Two clasping shadows beneath the moon — 

Ah, they seem to be yours and mine ! 



n8 



NEW HAMPSHIRE'S MOUNTAIN FORESTS. 

Samuel Webber. 

Ye mountains of New Hampshire, her glory and her 

crown, 
Whose rocky summits proudly rise above the tempests 1 

frown, 
Around your shoulders, broad and strong, the ancient 

forests grow, 
While from each cliff, with joyful song, the sparkling 

waters flow. 

They grow and gather on their path to seek the distant 

main ; 
They freshen many a fertile vale and many a sandy plain ; 
At every leaping cataract upsprings a city fair, 
And sounds of busy industry awake the morning air. 

The sun, obeying nature's laws, draws up each drop 

again 
In clouds which fall as gentle dew, or burst in drenching 

rain. 
Each leaf and flower, each mossy cup, collect the welcome 

store, 
And down the mountain side again the foaming torrents 

pour. 



'39 



The God who made them gave the woods a mission upon 

earth, 
To garner up and store the rain, and give the rivers birth ; 




And every blow the woodman strikes to bring them to 

their doom 
But stills some hammer's noisy din, or stops some busy 

loom. 

Amid the sheltering foliage builds many a bird her nest ; 
Beneath the shade the wild deer roves, the squirrel finds 
a rest ; 



140 



The spotted trout leaps gaily amid the sparkling foam, 
And countless lovely flowerets bloom in their own wood- 
land home. 

Then, when the summer sun beats down upon each city 

street, 
And all within its stony walls are sweltering with heat, 
How many strive to banish toil, with all its cares and 

ills, 
And seek new health and strength amid the everlasting 

hills ! 

Now up a winding pathway, then through a shady grove, 
Now round a mossy boulder, their wandering footsteps 

rove ; 
Or climb some rocky summit, clear in the mountain air, 
To gaze upon the world below in summer verdure fair. 

O statesmen ! spare the forests which grace our native 

land! 
Save some of nature's handicraft from lucre's grasping 

hand, 
That when, your earthly labors o'er, beneath their shade 

you rest, 
The generations yet unborn may rise and call you blessed. 



141 



THE TREE LOVER. 

Sam Walter Foss. 

Who loves a tree he loves the life that springs in star 

and clod ; 
He loves the love that gilds the clouds and greens the 

April sod ; 
He loves the Wide Beneficence. His soul takes hold on 

God. 

A tree is one of nature's words, a word of peace to man, 




". I tree is one of natui 



of peace to man." 



142 



A word that tells of central strength from whence all 

things began, 
A word to preach tranquillity to all our restless clan. 

Ah, bare must be the shadeless ways, and bleak the 

path must be, 
Of him who, having open eyes, has never learned to 

see, 
And so has never learned to love the beauty of a tree. 

'Tis well for man to mix with men, to drive his stubborn 

quest 
In harbored cities where the ships come from the east 

and west, 
To fare forth where the tumult roars, and scorn the 

name of rest. 

'Tis well the current of his life should toward the deeps 

be whirled 
And feel the clash of alien waves along its channel 

swirled, 
And the conflux of the eddies of the mighty-flowing 

world . 

But he is wise who 'mid what noise his winding way 
may be 

Still keeps a heart that holds a nook of calm seren- 
ity, 

And an inviolate virgin soul that still can love a tree. 



143 



Who loves a tree he loves the life that springs in star 

and clod, 
He loves the love that gilds the clouds, and greens the 

April sod ; 
He loves the Wide Beneficence. His soul takes hold 

on God. 




THE WHITTIER PINE 



144 



KEARSARGE. 

Edna Dean Proctor. 

O lift thy head, thou mountain lone, 

And mate thee with the sun ! 
Thy rosy clouds are valeward blown, 
Thy stars, that near at midnight shone, 

Gone heavenward, one by one, 
And half of earth, and half of air, 
Thou risest vast, and gray, and bare, 

And crowned with glory. Far southwest 

Monadnock sinks to see, — 
For all its trees and towering crest, 
And clear Contoocook, from its breast 

Poured down for wood and lea, — 
How statelier still, though frost and dew, 
Thy granite cleaves the distant blue. 

And high to north, from fainter sky, 

Franconia's cliffs look down ; 
Home to their crags the eagles fly, 
Deep in their caves the echoes die, 

The sparkling waters frown, 
And the great face that guards the glen 
Pales with the pride of mortal men. 

Nay, from their silent, cryst.il seat 
The White Hills scan the plain ; 

145 



Nor Saco's leaping, lightsome feet, 
Nor Ammonoosuc, wild to greet 

The meadows and the main, 
Nor snows nor thunders can atone 
For splendor thou hast made thine own. 

For thou hast joined the immortal band 
Of hills and streams and plains, 

Shrined in the songs of native land, 

Linked with the deeds of valor grand 
Told when the bright day wanes. 

Part of the nation's life art thou, 

O mountain of the granite brow ! 

Not Pelion when the Argo rose, 

Grace of its goodliest trees ; 
Nor Norway's hills when woodmen's blows 
Their pines sent crashing through the snows 

That kings might rove the seas ; 
Nor heights that gave the Armada's line, 
Thrilled with a joy as pure as thine. 

Bold was the ship thy name that bore ; 

Strength of the hills was hers ; 
Heart of the oaks thy pastures store 
The pines that hear the north wind roar, 

The dark and tapering firs ; 
Nor Argonaut nor Viking knew 
Sublimer daring than her crew. 

146 



And long as Freedom fires the soul 

Or mountains pierce the air, 
Her fame shall shine on honor's scroll ; 
Thy brow shall be the pilgrim's goal 

Uplifted broad and fair ; 
And from thy skies inspiring gales 
O'er future seas shall sweep our sails. 

Still summer keep thy pastures green, 
And clothe thy oaks and pines ; 

Brooks laugh thy rifted rocks between ; 

Snows fall serenely o'er the scene 
And veil thy lofty lines ; 

While crowned and peerless thou dost stand, 

The monarch of our mountain land. 



147 



WEBSTER. 

Henry Ames Blood. 

Inscribed to Benjamin Pierce Cheney, of Boston, who, in the 
spirit of the ancient Greeks, erected a statue at Concord, N. H., on the 
17th of June, 18S6, to the memory of Webster. 

I. 

He trod no deck ; he rode no horse ; he bore 

No truncheon and no sword. He only sate 

A simple senator within the gate. 

But when he spoke men listened ; from every door 

Surged round him like a sea without a shore — 

This man of the majestic mien, who late 

On his own shoulders had borne up the state. 

Hearts beat ; eyes glistened ; he would speak once more ! 

The thunders gathered on his awful brow. 

He spoke. We know the story. He who shone 

On all the summits of occasion, now 

Shone upon this, and made the day his own. 

He did but speak within the senate hall 

Some pregnant hours, yet in that time saved all. 



14S 



II. 

He died. His living eyes were never bent 

Upon the sun that lit his country's woes; 

But in a decade that red sun arose, 

And on his tomb its warning rays were sent. 

And now, throughout the war, from tent to tent, 

Great Webster walked in scorn of death's repose, 

And sat by every camp-fire. Unto those 

He showed what Chippewa, Buena Vista meant. 

Fort Erie, Palo Alto, Lundy's Lane; 

To these discoursed of Concord, Plymouth-shore, 

And Bunker hill ; and heard their loud huzza, 

When — where he pointed— rose to sight again, 

Fold over fold unfurling, star by star, 

The old flag sweeping through the heavens once more. 



149 



III. 

New Hampshire bore him ; nurtured him; a stern 

Rough nurse, but still, still at his mothers hearth. 

Ah, Heaven, that he should sleep in other earth, 

Even though in Massachusetts ! Even though his urn 

Stands by the sea, to make the white ships turn 

Instinctively ! For what is all this worth, 

When I can hear her voice who gave him birth, — 

And know how strong her tender heart doth yearn, — 

Calling his mighty ashes? Attica 

No less had sighed for her Demosthenes : 

So in her granite hills New Hampshire stands. 

More proud, yet more forlorn than even Greece, 

Remembering such a son, and looking far 

Where shines a tomb beside the ocean sands. 



5° 



FROM THE PIAZZA. 

Mt. Washington from the Mt. Pleasant House. 
Edward A. Jenks. 

Across his breast the autumn sunbeams fall, 
While up his shaggy side the shadows creep 
From foot to crown, — a flock of mountain sheep 

Slow climbing homeward at the shepherd's call, 

Scaling with certain foot the jagged wall, 
O'erleaping gulfs and canons wildly deep 
Within whose cells the storm-winged Furies sleep, — 

Until they gather at their starlit stall. 

And up the iron trail the genii go, 

With sturdy shoulders pushing venturous trains, 
While the grim mountain shakes his sides with glee 

To see his faithful vassals toiling so. 

At last the clouds engulf them, and it rains : 
So great ships vanish in a thunderous sea. 



iSi 



OCTOBER. 

James M. Adams. 

Oh, jewel-crowned October, 

The queen of all the year, 
Resplendent in thy crimson robes, 

We bid you welcome here ! 

We bid you come to reign again 

O'er all our vales and hills. 
Ere Winter's icy touch shall chill 

Our bright and sparkling rills. 

No fairer queen was ever seen 

By subject than art thou ; 
We own thy power 
Each gladsome hour, 

And crown anew thy brow. 

Thy crimson robe is flecked with gold, 
And trimmed with brightest green ; 

While yet thy magic eyes emit 
Warm rays of sunlight sheen. 

With lavish hand thou spread'st abroad 

The fruits of autumn rare, 
The purple grape, the blushing peach. 

The apple, and the pear. 

152 



A fairer queen was never seen 
By subject than art thou ; 

Each gladsome hour 

We own thy power, 

And crown anew thy brow. 



iS3 



MONADNOCK IN OCTOBER. 

Edna Dean Proctor. 

Uprose Monadnock in the northern blue, 

A glorious minster builded to the Lord ! 

The setting sun his crimson radiance threw 

On crest, and steep, and wood, and valley sward, 

Blending their myriad hues in rich accord, 

Till like the wall of heaven it towered to view. 

Along its slope, where russet ferns were strewn, 

And purple heaths, the scarlet maples flamed ; 

And reddening oaks and golden birches shone, — 

Resplendent oriels in the black pines framed, 

The pines that climb to woo the winds alone. 

And down its cloisters blew the evening breeze 

Through courts and aisles ablaze with autumn bloom r 

Till shrine and portal thrilled to harmonies, 

Now soaring, dying now in glade and gloom. 

And with the wind was heard the voice of streams, — 

Constant their Aves and Te Deums be, — 

Lone Ashuelot murmuring down the lea, 

And brooks that haste where shy Contoocook gleams 

Through groves and meadows, broadening to the sea. 

Then holy twilight fell on earth and air ; 

Above the dome the stars hung faint and fair, 

And the vast minster hushed its shrines in prayer ; 

While all the lesser heights kept watch and ward 

About Monadnock builded to the Lord. 



!55 



WHEN THE SUMMER DAYS HAVE FLED. 

Alice P. Sargent. 

All the sweet summer we have felt the charm 
Of her own witchery ; by the changing sea 
We have found a peaceful, happy calm. 
While we have tried to learn its mystery ; 
Shall we remember what the waves have said 
When the summer days have fled? 

Or, perchance, our roving feet have led 
Where the cowbell tinkles faint and low, 
Where the leafy boughs close overhead 
And the mountain shadows come and go ; 
There again, in fancy, shall we tread 
When the summer days have fled? 

In gardens old, beside the gray stone wall, 
We found the roses growing white and fair, 
The pure, calm lily, and the poppy tall 
Flaunting her brilliant petals in the air ; 
Shall we picture yet her beauty red 
When the summer days have fled? 

Now flaming woods reflect the sunset's gold, 
And fluttering earthward falls the crimson leaf; 
The flocks are coming homeward to the fold ; 
The farmer binds again the golden sheaf. 
And yet with matchless beauty we are fed 
E'en though the summer days have fled. 

156 



OCTOBER. 

Josiah M. Fletcher. 

Oh ! the mellow, brown October is a merry month for me, 

When the checkered woods are waving like the billows of 

the sea ; 
When the yellow grain is gathered, and the golden har- 
vest stored, 
And the farmer leaves his sickle to make merry at the 

board. 
And the mellow, brown October has a sunny smile for all, 
When the nuts begin to ripen, and the fruits begin to fall ; 
When the golden glow of autumn over all the earth is cast, 
And the promise of the springtime has to full fruition 
passed. 

Through the sunny day the squirrel stores his winter food 
away ; 

And with airy bound the rabbit leads the huntsman far 
astray ; 

And the placid pools of water catch the golden smiles 
above ; 

And the robins band together in a brotherhood of love. 

Oh ! I love the mellow sunshine of the old October days, 

When around the quiet hilltops hangs the dreamy, 
golden haze ; 

When the mountains wear the mantle of the year's declin- 
ing sun 

As the victor wears his laurels when the battle has been 



iS7 



AUTUMN AMONG THE HILLS. 

Charles Henry Chesley. 

The hoary hills in dreamy langour sleep ; 

The year is old ; blue mists and golden haze 
Light up the vales, and fill the forest ways 
With iris-colored tints ; the rugged steep 
Is clothed in glamours gay, till shadows creep 
Forth from their hiding in the pine land maze, 
And dull the hues that mark the perfect days. 
A silence falls, and then the river-leap 
Mingles its roar with pipe of evening bird, 
And crickets chirp a cheery vesper croon 
That blends with tinkling bells of homing herd. 

The night comes on; the full-orbed harvest moon 
Spreads o'er the earth a challis frail and rare, 
And autumn scents are teeming in the air. 



158 



IN AUTUMN. 

Harriet McEwen Kimball. 

The cool, bright days, 
The calm, bright days, 
With their liberal-hearted noons ; 
The clear, still nights, 
The restful nights, 
With their greatening harvest moons ; 
And the ghostly rustle of withered corn 
Plucked of its ivory ears, and shorn 
Of the floating fringes that tossed and swayed 
When the ripening summer zephyr played 
Through the ranks that shone in the summer morn, 
The beautiful corn ! 

The golden days ! The golden days ! 
Warm with sunshine and dreamy with haze ; 
Warm with the sunshine and cool with the breeze ! 
Like troops of tropical butterflies 
Clouds of leaves from the gorgeous trees 

Flutter and fall, 
And cover the earth with splendid dyes 
Matching the marvels of sunset skies. 



159 



Swell beyond swell the hills uplift, 

The hills serene ; 
Slope beyond slope they ebb away 
Into the distance azure-gray ; 

And over them all, 
Through veils of amethyst vaguely seen, 
Magical lights incessantly shift, 
Moved by the wonder hands of Day — 

Over the hills serene ! 

No ripple breaks 
The lucid lakes 

Up from whose margins the gay banks climb, 
Into whose deeps the shadows descend, — 

Like sunken gardens in their prime, 
Whose softly pictured terraces end 
In emerald grottos where Naiads dream 
While the unstirred rushes over them stream. 

From the woodbine draping the cottage thatch 
The wandering winds as they pass, 
Tenderly, one by one, detach 
Leaves of crimson that flame in the sun ; 

One by one, 
Slowly downward they waver, and twirl, 
And alight on the trampled grass. 
Day by day the vine-leaves curl 

Revealing the heavily hanging grapes 

In tempting clusters of rarest shapes, 

That out of the heart of summer grew ; 



1 60 



Dusky-purple and amber-white, 

Warmed in the nooning and cooled in the night, 
Mingled of honey, and sunlight, and dew. 
The breeze through the orchard-alley sweeps. 
And russet-brown leaves in dusty heaps 
Eddy and whirl ; 

And russet-brown apples, and rosy-cheeked, 
Fall from the ruddy half-rifled bough, 

Strewing the grassy patch 
With its footpath trail below, 

Where the bare-headed, sunburnt farmer's girl 
Gathers the fairest and leaves the rest 
For the gold-brown bee in his honey quest, 
And the zealous ants that busily swarm 
Over the bruises mellow and warm ; 

While chicks full-feathered and yellow-beaked 
Roam in the sunshine and leisurely scratch 
For the helpless worm withdrawing its coil 
Lazily into the loosened soil. 

Streaming in at the wide barn door 
Warm lies the sun on the well-worn floor 
Scattered with wisps of straw and grain 
From the generous wain. 
Heaped high as the rafters the sweet-smelling hay 
Overhangs the bursting loft ; 
And a breath from the orchard croft 
-Stirs the loosened spears, and they drop away 
Noiselessly-soft ! 

161 



The mellow days ! the mellow days ! 
The brown seed ripens and bursts the pod ; 

The brown seed ripens, the stem decays, 
The black root rotting under the sod. 
The lattice o'er-straggled by faded vines 
Leans to its fall, 

And here and there by the garden wall 

And beside the late-neglected walks, 

Amid blackened weeds and mouldering stalks 
Where the fly in his mail of emerald shines, 

Flowers of garish beauty bloom 

Like torches that flare at the mouth of a tomb. 

Phantom of summer, silver fair. 

Peacefully restless through the air, 
With the unseen currents that softly flow 

Drifts the thistle-down to and fro. 

The yellow days ! the yellow days ! 

Fields of stubble and naked ways ! 

The year's last gold 

On the uttermost bough 

Flutters mournfully now! 

The sumac that burned like the bush of old 

Is almost stripped of its fire ; 
And trampled out by the rains that beat 
The sodden paths with their million feet 
The last bright hues expire! 



162 



YE OLD STONE WALL. 

Edward A. Jenks. 

"Octo bre 14'!', 1796— 

Begun r Stone Wall round y« Garden Plotte 
Below ye Barn— 2 Akers thereabouts "— 

'Tis fairly legible, with here a blot, 
And there a hasty scratch where "plotte" had been mis 

spelled ; 

And then— a hundred years the yellow « record" held, 

Thanks to the dry old garret, where the rain 
Could find no loophole ; to the old hair trunk, 

Its brass nails hid beneath the trash of years, 
And dust, and spider's broidery,— a bunk ' 

Secure and silent as king Shufu's mighty tomb 

Wherein the - record » slept amid the unvexed gloom. 

(At the breakfast table.) 

" The very durablest fence in all the world," 
Said uncle Jerry, << is a, good stone wall. ' 

If built as 't should be, 't lasts f 'rever ; 
'N 'I do' know any better time 'an the fall 

To start it 'long. These frosty nights make workin' days 

N when you put a big stone in its place, it stays." 

^3 



•• 'Twill look so nice and strong,' 1 said grandma Brawn. 

" I like to see the broad-backed, heavy stones 
I ' the bottom layer bearing the lesser ones 

So sturdily, with neither frowns nor groans. 
They mind me of the burdens tue should gladly bear 
For those we love — and others — here and everywhere." 

«' And if the wall is built of great, big stones," 
Said black-eyed Nell, " 'twill be so nice to climb ! 

And when the garden 's full of sweet green corn, 
And flowers, and fruit, in the bright summer-time. 

And vines are running over all the garden wall, 

We Ml play it's Eden— I'll be Eve before the fall!" 1 

" Won't it be jolly fun," said little Ben. 

" When all the cows come swinging home at night, 
To see their noses there above the wall, 

Their soft mouths watering for a juicy'bite 
Of all that corn and beans ! I wouldn't be a cow 
For anything !— A T o, sir ! — at least, I wouldn't now '." 

■" There is no doubt of it," said grandUher Brawn ; 

" The best of fences is a good stone wall ; 
And there is not a farm in all the town 

With rocks more plenty within easy call. 
Let us be duly thankful ! — Now to the field we go, 
A month's hard work before us, e'en till the driving snow.' 



164 



And so the old stone wall was built around 

" Y c Garden Plotte." Its massive stones to-day 

Are proudly standing there, erect and firm, 
Some lichens mingled with their iron gray, 

While all the blithesome, strong, and willing hearts and 
hands 

That built this deathless wall now dwell in other lands. 





PI 




'"V* 







165 



NUTTING TIME. 
Vienna G. Ramsey. 

I know where the nuts are ripe on the hill 

Under the harvest moon ! 
Strawberries blossomed there in the May, 

And the berries were red in June ; 
And barefooted children stripped the vines, 
While the bluebirds sang in the towering pines. 

I know where the nuts are ripe by the stream 
That flows through the pasture lands ! 

Lilies were blossoming there in July ; 
And the children filled their hands 

With reeds and rushes, and builded a boat, 

And shouted with joy to see it float. 

I know where the nuts are ripe in the woods, 
Where the butternut waves her plumes, 

Where the beech-tree glows in a golden robe 
That the autumn scene illumes, 

And the squirrel whisks a gay salute, 

Claiming his share of the falling fruit. 

Ah, me! I am far from the whispering woods, 
And far from the hill and stream ; 

And my childhood's joys, they, too, are far, 
Like a beautiful, vanishing dream ; 

And the faces that filled the earth with delight 

Under the sods are hidden from sight. 



1 66 



But I smile as I think, though I see them no more, 

That children with laughing faces 
Are gathering nuts as we gathered them once 

In the dear, familiar places. 
O the dear children ! I share in their mirth, 
That scatters the shadows and brightens earth. 



167 



ENTHRALLED. 

Celia Thaxter. 

Like huge waves, petrified, against the sky, 

The solemn hills are heaved. By shadow kissed 

Or softly touched by delicate light they lie 
Melting in sapphire and in amethyst. 

The thronging mountains, crowding all the scene, 
Are like the long swell of an angry sea, 

Tremendous surging tumult that has been 
Smitten to awful silence suddenly. 

The nearer slopes with autumn glory blaze, 
Garnet and ruby, topaz, amber, gold ; 

Up through the quiet air the thin smoke strays 
From many a lonely homestead, brown and old. 

The scattered cattle graze in pastures bare, 
The brooks sing unconcerned beside the way. 

Belated crickets chirp, while still and fair 
Dies into sunset peace the golden day. 

And toward the valley, where the little town 

Beckons with twinkling lights that gleam below 

Like bright and friendly eyes, we loiter down, 
And find our shelter and our fireside glow. 



169 



But while the gay hours pass with laugh and jest, 
And all is radiant warmth and joy once more, 

My captured thought must wander out in quest 
Of that vast mountain picture, o'er and o'er; 

Where underneath the black and star-sown arch 
Earth's ancient trouble speaks eternally ; 

And I must watch those mighty outlines march 
In silence, motionless, with none to see; 

While from the north the night wind sighing sweeps, 
And sharp against the crystal sky relieved, 

The tumult of forgotten ages sleeps 

Where like huge waves the solemn hills are heaved. 



170 



LOVING HEARTS. 
Nathan F . Carter. 

A pleasant sight are clear blue skies, 

When soft winds cheer us on to duty ; 
Above, glad visions for the eyes, 

Around, a world of growing beauty. 
The world is wide, the world is bright ; 

Oh ! tell to all the story, 
The world is full of living light, 

The world is full of glory ! 

A merry heart and smiling face 

Are better far than sunny weather ; 
A noble life and form of grace, 

Like leaves and flowers, grow well together. 
The world is dark, the world is cold ; 

Oh ! tell to all the story ; 
But loving hearts in young or old 

Can fringe its night with glory. 



171 



THE BLOODLESS SPORTSMAN. 

Sam Walter Foss. 

" Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? 
Loved the wood-rose and left it on its stalk ?" 

— Emerson. 

I go a-gunning, but take no gun ; 

I fish without a pole ; 
And I bag good game and catch such fish 

As suit a sportsman's soul ; 
For the choicest game that the forest holds, 

And the best fish of the brook, 
Are never brought down by a rifle shot 

And never are caught with a hook. 

I bob for fish by the forest brook, 

I hunt for game in the trees, 
For bigger birds than wing the air 

Or fish that swim the seas. 
A rodless Walton of the brooks, 

A bloodless sportsman, I, — 
I hunt for the thoughts that throng the woods, 

The dreams that haunt the sky. 

The woods were made for the hunters of dreams. 
The brooks for the fishers of song ; 

To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game 
The streams and the woods belong. 



'7- 



There are thoughts that moan from the soul of the pine, 

And thoughts in a flower bell curled ; 
And the thoughts that are blown with the scent of the 
fern 

Are as new and as old as the world. 

So, away ! for the hunt in the fern-scented wood 

Till the going down of the sun ; 
There is plenty of game still left in the woods 

For the hunter who has no gun. 
So, away! for the fish in the moss-bordered brook 

That flows through the velvety sod ; 
There are plenty of fish still left in the streams 

For the angler who has no rod. 



'7. 



AN OPAL MORN. 

Adelbert Clark. 

An azure tint, a flash of gold, 

A glowing crimson flame, 
A little ripple on the brook 

As a light breeze gently came, 
A carpet thick of frosty dew 

On meadow, field, and lawn ; — 
And so it came in pink and gray, 

The opal morn. 

From cot and mansion misty wreaths 

Of violet smoke arose. 
Tossed to and fro as when the wind 

A wild-rose petal blows ; 
And from the water's silver breast 

A pearly veil was borne, 
And heaven was ne'er so fair as on 

That opal morn. 



i74 



HAZEL BLOOM. 

N. Wheeler Rand. 

Bloom of the frosty light. 
Spangling with color bright 

Woodside and glen. 
Thrice glad thy coming here 
When all the earth is drear, — 
Child of the dying year, 

Welcome again ! 

No sister blossoms sweet 
Linger thy steps to greet, 

Thy charms to learn ; 
Sere all the hillsides lie, 
Songless the woodland nigh ; 
Only the streams and sky 

Hail thy return. 

Symbol of hope art thou 
Unto each leafless bough, 

Each silent grove ; 
For in thy stellar rays 
Gleams pledge of vernal days, 
Sunshine and songs of praise, 

Gladness and love. 

'75 



AUTUMN. 
Lucy J. H. Frost. 

The leaves are painted with autumnal glory, 
But sad winds whisper ever of decay, 

While Nature tells the unforgotten story 
That all that's beautiful must fade away. 

Through all the forest aisles the wild bee wanders 
Seeking to find one yet unwithered flower, 

And the last bird of summer sadly ponders 
Alone within his melancholy bower. 

The babbling brook has ceased its merry laughter 
And murmurs in a low and plaintive tone 

The sweet, sad music of the word " hereafter' 1 
To breaking hearts that have world-weary grown. 

To-day my heart is like these autumn bowers, 
For from it tender hopes have passed away ; 

JBut I shall find again, in spring, the flowers, 
And meet my hopes where reigns eternal clay. 



176 



A FADED LEAK. 

Ella M. Haines. 

A faded leaf, thy beauty gone ; 
No hope of life at coming dawn 
Within thy shrivelled veins to flow ; 
No touch of sunset's afterglow ; 

A piece within the patch-work spread 
That autumn lays on summer's bed; 
A whispered sigh breathed from the tree 
That scattered gold promiscuously. 

Thy gay companions by thy side 

Have dropped their weary heads and died. 

Their merry flutter all is o'er, 

With folded wings they rise no more. 

The breeze that rocked thee to and fro, 
The tree that gave thee strength to grow, 
The sun that tended thee with care, 
The rain that cleansed and made thee fair, 

The birds that hid beneath thy shade. 
The tiny home their skill had made. 
Where twittering babies nestled nigh 
And spread their growing wings to fly, 



177 



Have cast thee off without a tear 
And left thee broken-hearted here, 
Unloved, uncared for in thy grief, 
A poor, forsaken, withered leaf. 

The autumn winds above thee blow ; 
Soon thou shalt lie beneath the snow, 
And diadems shall crown thy brow 
That's shorn of all its beauty now. 

Thy work is done. Why should we grieve? 
We all our work must sometime leave. 
This life shall lose its hold of earth, 
Dried be its tears, and hushed its mirth. 

The weary eyes shall close in sleep. 
No more their troubled watch to keep ; 
But life from death shall then be riven 
And borne by gentle breeze to heaven. 

Transformed will be the withered leaves, 
For there no more the spirit gritves, 
But beauty that no eye hath seen 



•" Though earth with all its wealth decay. 
My word shall never pass away." 
This message breathed through all the air 
Makes life below most wondrous fair. 



178 



We see the falling of the leaf, 
The binding of the golden sheaf, 
The nest left empty in the tree 
Where robins sang so joyously ; 

But never withered, never old, 
Are hearts that keep a loving hold 
Of that eternal, changeless Friend 
Who gives the life that ne'er shall end. 



i79 



FAREWELL TO MY SUMMER HOME. 

William S. Harris. 

Here, where the blue lake's peaceful cove 
Is shadowed by a noble grove, 
Is my retreat, by Nature planned, 
The choicest spot in Summer-land. 
The massive pines their heads uprear, 
And gather grandeur year by year ; 
The thunder's bolts they've long defied, 
And brushed the winter's snows aside. 

Among their boughs the zephyrs sing; 
Around their feet soft mosses cling, 
And matted vines, a verdant floor, 
With scarlet berries clotted o'er. 
Beyond the shadow of the pines 
The sunlight on the water shines, 
And tiny wavelets break and flash 
As 'gainst the pebbly shore they dash. 

What joy to wander 'neath these trees, 
To play with the gentle, scented breeze, 
To gaze on these peaceful scenes, and feel 
The calm and beauty o'er me steal ! 
How oft have I in leafy June, 
Or sultry August afternoon, 
Resting upon this fragrant sod 
Commnued with Nature and with God ! 



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But soon the chilling blasts will blow, 
And dreary winter's drifting snow 
Will cover moss and vine and fern ; 
To steely ice the lake will turn ; 
And so, good-by, dear woodland home, 
Till summer's warmth again shall come, 
And forest shades and lake of blue 
Shall welcome back their lover true. 



A MEMORY TREASURE. 
Etta U. Snow. 

When the Ice King makes the earth his throne, 
And fiercely rides the northern blast, 

I'll paint this picture, all my own, 
Of the bright summer stealing past. 

Oh ! mayflowers sweet, and apple blooms, 

And goldenrod, and larkspur plumes, 
My sketch will frame. 

Beneath the flowers, a bit of sky 
Smiles on a landscape doubly blest ; 

A summer breath comes back as I 
Seem at the quaint old stile to rest, 

Or 'neath the same old oak that stood 

Above my head in babyhood 
To sit once more. 

Beyond the meadows lying low 
Uprise the hills with purpled tops. 

The village churches gray spires show. 

Here wood, there dingle, field, and copse, — 

And flowing near with witching wiles 

The river lifts its rocky isles 
Amid the foam. 



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Once more I touch the pictured thought, 
On brain, or canvas, who can tell? 

I paint my homestead, and I ought 
To paint my summer friends as well ; 

But who can catch the loving grace 

That makes divine a dear friend's face, 
And memory charms? 

Not one small canvas holds the whole ; 

Fair bits of summer fill my heart; 
The morns of sweetness thrill my soul, 

The noons of sunshine heal life's smart 
And oh ! the sunsets, dropping down 
The gold to make night's star-set crown 
Bring rest and peace. 



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ON THE PISCATAOUA. 

Charles Henry Chesley. 

My boat swings idly, pointed to the bay ; 

The tide is making in without a sound; 
A school of pollock, leaping in their play, 

Send widening ripples far and farther 'round. 

The anchor holds ; the flood is mirrored glass ; 

From shore to shore no form breaks on the sight 
Save here and there a patch of floating grass, 

A phantom shape amid the morning light. 

In from the sea a line of wild geese comes, 
Intent to reach the reedy marshes near ; 

A sheldrake hurries by on wing that hums ; 
And lo, the gray November dawn is here ! 



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